


A Stormcloak and An Argonian Walk Into the Palace of the Kings...

by thelightofmorning



Series: Two Dragonborn, Three Siblings [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bjarni is Dragonborn, Bodily Functions, Calli is smol and will totally fight a motherfucker, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Cloaca, Corpses, Crimes & Criminals, Did I mention Sigdrifa is dead?, Egil is in charge, Egil is wishing he was back at the Hall of the Vigilants, Err it's branched out into a multistory franchise folks, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Incompatible Mixed-Orientation Marriage, Kidnapping, Multi, Religious Conflict, Rescue, Rewrite, Sad Galmar, Self-Indulgent, Sex Work, Sexual Incompatibility, Shahvee deserves love, Ship changed because holy shit Egil/Shahvee is now a thing, Sigdrifa is Dead, Sigdrifa is screaming from the afterlife, So is Callaina, So's Ulfric, Sorry Njada but Shahvee/Egil is awesome, Sorry Not Sorry, Swearing, This focuses on Shahvee/Egil, Tullius already regrets Helgen, War Crimes, You're Welcome, two dragonborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 32,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Ulfric Stormcloak and his greatest general (and wife) Sigdrifa Stormsword are dead at Helgen. On discovering that he has a sister trapped behind enemy lines, left there by his own mother, Bjarni and Ralof mount a rescue mission to Bruma.It never occurred to either of them to ask her first.It doesn't matter, because Akatosh has hedged his bets with two Dragonborn. General Tullius and Alduin are about to realise their years are about to get a lot worse.But for Shahvee, it'll get a lot better at least.Partial rewrite of Zeymah, Briinah.
Relationships: Shahvee/Original Male Character
Series: Two Dragonborn, Three Siblings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940782
Comments: 241
Kudos: 69





	1. Rescue from Bruma

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, kidnapping, religious conflict and mentions of imprisonment, war crimes, child abuse, criminal acts, sex work, abortion, child abandonment and genocide. Another AU that is a partial rewrite of Zeymah, Briinah - only Callaina's not (much of) a mage here. References to Beyond Skyrim: Bruma, though my County Bruma’s even worse than their version.

Every time Ralof came to Bruma, he was reminded of Skyrim’s future if he failed. From the tattered skeletons that still hung from rotting crosses on the road from Pale Pass to the town to the bowed heads and slumped shoulders of the populace. Altmer, resplendent in their gold-edged black robes, strutted around the three-terraced town like lords surveying their domain while Cyrods, their voices shrill with fear, heaped abuse on those considered beneath them. The remaining Nords, only a third left of what had once been a proud culture, scurried around with one eye on the Thalmor and the other on who they could betray for a few days’ respite or a purse of coin.

Other Stormcloaks were sickened by Bruma’s Nords and spoke slightingly of them. Ralof knew that if the Stormcloaks failed to free Skyrim, it would be the survivors’ fate to become as downtrodden – if not worse – as the folk of Bruma. It only hardened his resolve.

Judging by the dangerous glint in Bjarni’s eyes, the younger man had finally understood what it was his parents fought, tempering his natural compassion and love of freedom.

“Name?” asked one of the county guards in a bored voice.

“Ilak Tossinoff,” Bjarni promptly answered.

“That can’t be a real name,” said the other guard in disbelief as several folks waiting in line to enter Bruma snickered.

“Do you really think a man would call himself this voluntarily if it wasn’t his real name?” Bjarni asked in feigned astonishment.

“True,” grudgingly conceded the guard. “Business in Bruma?”

“Furs,” Bjarni said laconically. “I hear snow furs sell for their weight in gold down here.”

Ralof, masquerading as a combination of guard and porter, rolled out one of the snow fox furs Bjarni had insisted they bring. “Soft as a maiden’s cheek,” he said, stroking its soft white hair.

The second guard groaned. “It’ll take forever to search all those furs.”

Bjarni smiled. “I’m sure if you examine the snow fox pelts, you’ll see they’re of the finest quality. Rollo, unroll another. I would make a gift to Bruma’s finest gate guards.”

Since even in snow-touched Bruma these furs were enough for a night’s drinks at a half-decent pub, the guards were happy to make a pretence of examining them before declaring it was obvious Ilak and his man Rollo were honest Nords untainted by treason. “Keep your head low and stick to the lowest tier while you’re in Bruma,” advised the first guard gruffly. “Nurancar the Younger hasn’t made his monthly quota of Talos worshippers and he’ll drag a couple of bearded, braided Nords like yourself to Blue Carp Prison.”

“We’ve heard of him even in Haafingar,” Bjarni said grimly. “My thanks for the warning, friend.”

Fortunately for Bjarni and Ralof, their business required them to only be in Bruma’s poor district for a few hours. Bjarni’s nostrils flared as they walked along a crooked street mired in mud and worse.

“I’m known at the Restful Watchman,” Ralof explained softly. “It’ll look strange if we don’t hire a room for the night. County Bruma’s got enough dangerous beasties you really don’t want to camp outside the walls if you can help it.”

Bjarni nodded. “Very well.”

The Restful Watchman was a dark, dingy pub that rented out pallets by the hour to dubious characters. Its owner was a surly, blatantly corrupt Nord who would sell his dead father to a necromancer and have his mother cut up for stew meat. A fistful of gold got them one of the two loft rooms instead of pallets, bowls of stew with meat that once barked in them, and flagons of beer watered down with what Ralof opted to call water. Mead was a dangerous thing to serve in Bruma due to its association with symbels and other rituals.

One of the shadier characters eyed the bale of furs at Ralof’s feet until he looked into Bjarni’s eyes and shuddered at the ice there. Since Helgen, Ulfric’s elder son had hardened, though never as cruel as his mother. That streak of loyalty and nobility had brought him into enemy territory to right an ancient wrong.

Thankfully, neither of them had to wait overlong for their target. A short brunette with a too-familiar face entered the Watchman, her thin wrists and patched dress speaking eloquently of her struggles. Bjarni’s expression darkened and Ralof could only hope he kept his temper long enough for them all to escape Bruma.

“Here’s your damned mending,” she said, throwing a bundle of stained cloth at the innkeeper, who caught it neatly.

“You could have washed it,” he complained, examining the fabric.

“You paid me for mending, not laundry,” was her acerbic answer.

“Bitch,” retorted the innkeeper.

“Woof woof,” she countered.

Well, if she was able to stand up to one of the sleaziest men Ralof knew without a hint of fear, there was hope for her yet.

“Innkeeper,” Bjarni called out as she stalked out. “Can you watch my furs? I need some fresh air after your excellent beer.”

“Put ‘em behind the bar,” the innkeeper said. “No one but mine will touch ‘em.”

Bjarni smiled. “Help yourself to a wolfskin for the service, my good man.”

“Good man?” laughed one of the other patrons.

“He’s doing me a favour. A favour deserves a reward,” Bjarni answered mildly.

Ralof stood up and rested a hand on his axe. “I’m sure we understand each other, Bort.”

“Rollo! You son of a mangy bitch!” the patron said with a shaky laugh. “No trouble from me. I’ve just finished learning how to chew with a few less teeth.”

“See? Even an old Legion dog can learn new tricks,” Ralof said, his teeth bared in nothing that could charitably be called a grin.

“Stormcloak scum,” Bort retorted without rancour. “Varro will pike your head at the gates.”

“You going to tell him I’m in town?”

“Fuck him. He drummed me out of the Legion for executing a Talos worshipper cleanly.” Bort spat into the filthy rushes. “Fuck off. You’re souring the ale in my belly.”

“That’d be your last shreds of honour,” Ralof retorted.

“Get fucked.”

“I will when I visit your sister.”

Bort’s response was cut off by the closing door as they left the Watchman.

“Was that wise?” Bjarni asked under his breath.

“It would have looked stranger if Bort and I _didn’t_ insult each other. He’s a dishonourably discharged Legionary who works as a sellsword of the worst sort. I’ve hired him to do… well…” Ralof grimaced. “Things your mother would have approved of, if not your father.”

Bjarni grunted. “Both of them were right and both of them were wrong.”

A blue-white glow gleamed in his palm, tracing out the path of their target. It wasn’t too far away, leading to a small shack tucked between two larger buildings. A dried wreath of motherwort and milk thistle hung from the door, suggesting she was an herbalist, a shadowmark depicting the protection of the Thieves Guild was etched into the doorframe, and a crudely carved spool-and-thread told customers she mended and made clothing. So she had practical skills and connections. It still didn’t change the fact her life was in danger.

Ralof picked the lock on her door and opened it into a narrow but deep room divided by a wooden counter covered with the tools of an alchemist’s trade. The woman was already rising from her seat at a shabby table, fire in her fist, but Bjarni bulled his way past Ralof to catch the firebolt with a Ward.

“Congratulations. You are being rescued. Please don’t resist,” he said before throwing the carefully prepared Paralysis scroll on her. Collapsing due to suddenly rigid muscles, she glared murder as Ralof grabbed everything she might possibly want or need and Bjarni tied her up.

Quick, smooth, done in under two minutes. By the time dawn arrived over Bruma, they were already halfway through the Serpent’s Trail on their way to the Old Holds. Bjarni’s sister, abandoned to the untender mercies of the Thalmor and the Empire by her mother, was coming home to Skyrim.


	2. Interesting Choice of Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, kidnapping and mentions of imprisonment, war crimes, criminal activities and child abandonment. Calli is definitely 100% smol and will fight you.

They were on the other side of the Jeralls. Calli could tell because the mountains were to the south instead of the north. The man who carried her bound and slung over his shoulder was rangy, his sun-blond hair in dire need of a wash, and known to her. Rollo – a mercenary long suspected in the Mud Streets as being a Stormcloak agent. Given the comments he shared with the hulking sable-haired lout who told her she was being rescued, it was true. But why would she need rescuing?

“We’re in the Rift,” rumbled the sable-haired youth. “We’ll overnight in Ivarstead.”

“Hopefully we’ll be able to untie the lady,” drawled Rollo. “She’s heavier than she looks.”

“If you hadn’t kidnapped me, none of us would be in this position!” Calli snapped.

“We saved your life,” said the sable-haired young man in hurt confusion. “Once the Imperials realised you were the daughter of Sigdrifa Stormsword-“

Calli’s bray of laughter sounded much like a crow complaining about the rain. “They already fucking knew, you idiot! D’you reckon I was living in Piss Alley for shits and giggles? No, it’s because I’m descended from three of the greatest traitors the Empire’s ever known and am under interdict. No home of my own. No authority. No rank. Permitted to live because the Emperor knew killing an eight-year-old would look bad but never allowed to have a life beyond mere survival.”

Rollo sighed. “Remind me again why this was a good idea, Bjarni?”

“Because I had a sister behind enemy lines,” Bjarni said grimly. “At least in Skyrim she will be-“

Calli had spent twenty-five years honing her bitterness about her mother’s abandonment, the poverty in which she lived and the absolute ruination of her life thanks to the selfishness of her parents. She allowed it free reign, startling Rollo and Bjarni with the biological diversity of their ancestry, the depravity of their sexual habits and their lack of personal hygiene. Life in the Mud Streets had taught her well.

“Well,” Rollo said dryly halfway through her tirade, “At least we know she’s your sister.”

“She mispronounced sload-fucker in Ta’agra though,” Bjarni said critically. “Her Jel is pretty good though.”

“-Fuck you,” she snarled. “Tell that stone-cold bitch we call a mother to-“

Her language deteriorated again as Rollo sighed and they began to walk through the aspen and birch forest.

“Shame she wasn’t at Helgen,” he drawled. “She’d have scared off the dragon with the yelling.”

“I got him to crash into that watchtower full of Imperials when I told him what his mother did with wyverns,” Bjarni said mildly. “Talos knows Mother shrieked like a fishwife when she was angry. Good to see no one will doubt our kinship.”

“Dragon? What the _fuck_ do you mean by dragon?” Calli shrieked. Her day was going bad to worse.

“A dragon attacked Helgen right after our mother’s head was cut off,” Bjarni said sombrely. “My father was crushed in the ruins of Helgen Keep.”

“Do you reckon he’ll spare me if I send him a thank you note?” Laina asked seriously.

“Tullius? I doubt it. The last of the Aurelii’s in the Old Holds,” Rollo observed. “Like it or not, you’re with us now.”

The rest of the walk to Ivarstead was spent with Calli finding new and exciting ways to describe his ancestry back to the days of creation in as many languages as she could remember. Sadly, it wasn’t as satisfying as she might have hoped because Bjarni took notes and corrected her Ta’agra, Dunmeri and Aldmeris.

For the millionth time, she wished she’d been a nameless orphan like so many folks she knew. It could not have been worse than this.

…

“She’s going to give Egil a heart attack,” Ralof observed with a heavy sigh as Calli’s voice finally went hoarse. Bjarni probably should offer to carry her for a bit but if he was in his sister’s attack range, she’d bite him or something.

It made so much sense back in Windhelm after his parents’ deaths at Helgen and finding out there was a half-sister. Get behind enemy lines, rescue her from the Empire, and bring her home to Skyrim where she belonged. It hadn’t taken Ralof long to realise she was the herbwoman Calli, a long-time resident of the little nook charmingly named Piss Alley in Bruma’s poor quarter. The retrieval had been easy but the homecoming…

“Look, I get you’re not happy about us kidnapping you,” he told her when she was unable to reply. “But what in the gods’ name did you have back in Bruma that would be better than living in Windhelm?”

“Not being crucified for rebellion,” was her hoarse reply, dripping in acid.

“Your faith in the Stormcloak cause is touching,” Ralof said sarcastically.

“Tullius isn’t called the Imperial Nutcracker for nothing,” Calli pointed out.

“As good as Tullius is, our brother Egil’s spent a lifetime preparing to counter his cavalry tactics,” Bjarni assured her.

Her hoarse laugh showed more scepticism than her previous cursing had.

When they reached Ivarstead’s bridge, Ralof dropped her on the ground and drew his dagger. “I don’t recommend trying to run,” he said dryly. “Bears like city meat.”

She rubbed her wrists after he cut her bonds, glaring at him the whole time.

“Water?” Bjarni offered, giving her his waterskin. “Better than mead for quenching thirst.”

“Do you take me for a fucking idiot?” she asked acidly after a few mouthfuls. “I know what it is to starve and go thirsty thanks to dear old Ma. Guess she got her real Nord kids after all.”

“She got her head cut off,” Bjarni reminded her.

“Good.” Calli’s answer was brutal. “Pity I can’t spit on her grave.”

Ralof was rubbing his forehead in a clear sign of stress. “I don’t suppose we could just dump her in Riften? Egil won’t just have a heart attack, he’ll probably want to strangle her.”

“No!” Bjarni exclaimed. “She’s my sister. There’s matters of inheritance and honour-“

“I’m _interdicted_ , remember?” Calli interrupted. “I’m barely allowed to own clothing.”

“You’re in the Old Holds. We told the Empire to get fucked a while ago.” Bjarni studied his half-sister. The lines of anger and bitterness carved into her gaunt face reminded him of the Dunmer in the Grey Quarter. “At the very least, you’re due a house and income. You won’t starve.”

“I had a life and friends, damn you!” she retorted. “It wasn’t much of one and they were poor as dirt, but…”

_“You can’t just mend things with a snap of your fingers,”_ Egil had said soberly when Bjarni told him of his plans. _“At the very least, she has terrible trauma. Bringing her here may make things worse for her.”_

Well, Bjarni would see about that. Calli, for all her choice language, hadn’t been half as cruel in her worst insult as the Stormsword had been in her least.

“It’ll be well,” he assured her. “You’ll like Windhelm, I promise.”

“Uh huh. That’s assuming the dragons don’t eat us all.”

And on cue, there was a familiar roar from the sky.


	3. Prayers to Zenithar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of criminal acts, child abandonment, war crimes, drugs and child abuse. Ship has changed because Egil/Shahvee is now a thing.

There were days, Shahvee mused as she scraped horker hide in preparation for tanning it, that she missed Bruma. As one of the hatchlings of Neela-Tai, the Guildmaster in that place, she never went hungry or had to do more work than picking a pocket or selling some sham scrolls. Honest work was generally harder and smellier than her previous occupation. But while not as lucrative, she appreciated the ache in her bones after a good day’s work and cherished every septim all the more. In these moments, she understood Zenithar’s teachings.

Her fingers automatically went to her Amulet and she sighed. Bold bandits from Traitor’s Post had taken advantage of Ulfric and Sigdrifa’s funeral to sneak across the harbour and raid the docks, beating anyone who dared stand up to them and stealing anything of value. Her Amulet, a gift from her mother, was one of them. If her pallet in the Assemblage didn’t rely on a daily quota of work, she’d sneak up there and retrieve it. Was it theft when she reclaimed something of her own?

“Make way for the Jarl!” snapped one of the Stormcloak guards at Neetranaza and Scouts-Many-Marshes as they hauled a bale from a ship to the Shatter-Shield warehouse.

“The Jarl can make way for this damned bale!” snarled Neetranaza in Jel.

The Nord couldn’t understand the words but the tone was clear. His hand went to his sword and Shahvee winced. Neetranaza hadn’t been able to afford skooma for a few weeks and the withdrawal made his temper savage. But the Nords wouldn’t care about that, only that an elderly Argonian hadn’t grovelled before their new Talos-appointed Jarl.

“Calder!” ordered the new Jarl sharply. “Hand off your sword!”

The auburn-haired man scowled at the athletic sable-haired one. “He probably insulted you!”

“My Jel isn’t the best but I’m pretty sure he told me to wait a moment,” rumbled the Jarl. “If you haven’t noticed, those two are carrying a bale that would make two Bjarnis wince to load it.”

“Damn boots,” muttered Calder.

“Calder!” roared the new Jarl. “I told you that I will not tolerate the abuse of non-Nords who contribute to the city’s welfare!”

All around the docks, jaws and loads dropped. Shahvee could scarcely believe it herself and she was a few feet away from them.

The Jarl caught the bale Neetranaza and Scouts dropped, veins sticking out in his neck as he hauled it up; there was a hidden strength in his relatively lighter frame. Everyone knew that his brother Bjarni was on the far side on six feet but Egil Storm-Born was no slouch himself.

“I will have words with Torbjorn Shatter-Shield concerning loads and pay,” he said once the two males had taken the bale again. “You deserve the fruits of your labour.”

“Good luck with that,” Scouts said dryly. “That old skinflint doesn’t even pay Suvaris properly and she runs his damned business for him.”

“That will change,” Egil said with quiet promise.

“My Jarl, you wanted to speak to them about the raiders from Traitor’s Post,” prompted Brunwulf Free-Winter, a good man who often used his respected voice to speak for non-Nords at the Holdmoot.

“Yes. Right.” Egil pinched the bridge of his nose. “Who lost goods in this raid? I intend to lead a force there to deal with them.”

“There’s no way a troop of guards can approach them openly unless you’ve got ten or so in good armour,” Shahvee told him candidly. “They’ve got two archers and a mage.”

“Stendarr preserve us,” Egil muttered.

“How do you know this?” demanded Calder.

“Because I used to be a Thief and am still light on my feet,” Shahvee admitted. “If I didn’t have a daily work quota in order to keep my bed in the Assemblage, I’d have crept in and taken them back myself, and hoped Zenithar doesn’t consider it theft if I reclaim what was taken.”

“I’ll make it good with Torbjorn,” Egil said shortly. “Calder, find some hide armour and a decent weapon for the lady. Grab Helga Hard-Heart from the barracks since she can have three arrows in the air at one time. I can Ward against the mage long enough for her to use them as target practice.”

Grumbling, the auburn-haired Nord stomped off, and Brunwulf sighed. “He doesn’t like this.”

“Calder was my mother’s huscarl. He’s too young to have been buried with her.” Egil sighed himself. “Lady… I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“Shahvee,” she answered with a polite nod of her head.

“Egil Storm-Born. The new Jarl of Windhelm.” Egil held out his hand and Shahvee automatically shook it. “You worship Zenithar? I thought the Argonians were all dedicated to the Hist.”

“From the Hist we came and maybe to the Hist we will return even if we’ve never been to Blackmarsh,” she explained. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t worship other gods.”

“Zenithar’s an excellent choice. Firstborn and beloved son of Kyne, brother to Stendarr,” was his reply. “I know little of Argonians. My brother’s the one who usually handles this sort of thing.”

“You know more than most Nords if you can understand Jel,” she assured him.

Much to her surprise, Egil blushed a bright red. “Mostly because Bjarni insists on translating swear words.”

That sounded like Bjarni Storm-Born. Big, boisterous and almost the stereotypical Nord, he’d somehow managed to avoid the wide streak of racism both parents and most of the Stormcloaks had. But dealing with him was exhausting and most Argonians were already exhausted from all their work.

Calder returned with hide armour, a steel axe and a Nord woman with dark hair and a great silver-grey bow on her back. “I’ve got them, my Jarl,” he grated.

“Thank you, Calder,” Egil said. “Shahvee, I’ll give you a few minutes to change-“

She’d already removed her dress and was reaching for the armour when he made a choking sound. Nords could be ridiculous about such things.

“I’ll borrow Scouts’ steel-headed fishing spear,” she said as she laced up the hide top. “I’m used to smaller weapons.”

“Cutting throats, I suppose,” Calder sneered.

“Purses, usually,” Shahvee answered mildly. “I have only ever killed in self-defence or to protect a friend. You’re thinking of the Shadowscales, who belong to Sithis from the day of their birth.”

“Calder,” Egil rumbled in warning.

It didn’t take them long to cross the harbour and as Shahvee predicted, the archers and mage saw them almost immediately. She dropped to the snow, spear in hand, and went along the ruined house’s perimeter until she reached where the chest of loot was kept. The bandit chief was cursing as Helga’s bow sang, killing the archers while Egil simply threw sunlight at the mage’s head to blind him. She didn’t even know someone could hold the sun in his hand.

She was just picking the lock when the bandit chief spotted her, snarled and rushed over. “Filthy fucking lizard!” he snarled, raising his axe.

Shahvee froze, watching the Dwemer weapon descend… and then it fell to the ground from a nerveless hand as Egil’s mace bashed the chief’s head in.

“Are you alright?” he asked, helping her to stand.

“I-I am,” she stammered. Why hadn’t she noticed that his eyes were an intense blue-green? There was something about him that reminded her of her mother’s friend Calli, of all people. Maybe it was the compassion that lay under a harsh exterior.

“Good.” Egil rolled over the corpse. “I remember this one. He used to be in one of my mother’s special officer squads.”

Brunwulf’s expression was grim. “I’ve heard rumours she seeded Stormcloak squads all across the Old Holds as ‘bandits’.”

“She did what?” Egil yelped.

“She did what was necessary!” Calder snapped. “They keep the other Jarls in line, hide the true extent of our forces and keep scum out of our lands.”

“Are you telling me,” Egil asked in a soft, deadly voice, “that my mother is engaging in the massacres of innocents?”

“She did it at Karthwasten,” Brunwulf confirmed grimly.

“She was doing what Talos did in the holy scriptures!” Calder protested.

“Were you involved in this?” Egil asked softly.

“Of course. Someone had to coordinate everything.”

Nords, as everyone knew, were capable of shocking violence at the drop of a hat and Egil proved no different. Calder barely had time to widen his eyes before his features disintegrated under the force of the Jarl’s steel mace.

“By my authority as Jarl, I sentence this man to death for murder,” he said afterwards, shaking blood and brain and bone from the weapon. “Talos might have approved, but Stendarr demands we use our strength to protect, not to dominate. Brunwulf, investigate each of the commanders for their part in these atrocities. We have a lot to set right in our house before we dare liberate Skyrim.”

A Jarl of the Nords who believed in applying justice equally. Shahvee was hard put to not stare as she returned to picking the lock on the chest to retrieve the looted goods. This had to be a Hist-sent dream, no Nord could be that merciful…

But the smell of blood and shit and snow was too real and the feel of the pick in her fingers too familiar. This wasn’t a dream.

Maybe Zenithar answered prayers after all.


	4. A Pain in the Cloaca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, references to drug use and bodily functions. I need to find a new LI for Bjarni, lol. I use a mod that gives Argonians more colourful scales, so the description of Shahvee and the others is a little different (Feminine Argonian Textures Chameleon and Lizard).

Egil sank onto a nearby seat, his hands and legs trembling, as Helga and Brunwulf practically looted the ‘bandits’ of anything remotely useful. Food, arms, armour and even furniture would be carried back to Windhelm to be salvaged. He’d give the food and furniture to the Argonians. From what he saw on the docks, they could use it, and Shahvee had mentioned pallets in the Assemblage.

“Shahvee is in your debt,” the Argonian said softly, having retrieved her amulet from the chest of looted goods. Her borrowed hide armour showed wiry limbs covered in scales the vivid hue of scattered jewels, seamed here and there with scars. It was easy to assume that the lizard-folk of Blackmarsh looked as drab as any common reptile, but he’d been surprised to see the bright colours and intricate patterning of those who worked on the docks.

“There is no debt,” Egil assured her, collecting himself. He should have pronounced sentence on Calder first before executing him, but the horror of hearing that the huscarl wasn’t just complicit in his mother’s atrocities but actively approved and participated in them… Horror and rage as he realised that the Stormcloaks were as steeped in cruelty as the Empire they opposed. The Great War had made humanity even crueller than before, Carcette had noted. Now, he could understand what she meant by atrocity begetting atrocity.

“Shahvee is,” she insisted. “You didn’t have to go personally, Jarl. You could have sent a couple sellswords instead. Zenithar teaches us to acknowledge a debt and pay it fairly.”

“And Stendarr teaches us that a lord is the shield and sword of his people,” Egil countered wearily. “These renegades were worthy of death for preying on civilians. I passed the sentence, so I swung the sword. It’s the Nord way. There is no debt.”

“Let her have her honour, lad,” Brunwulf advised as he piled good steel weapons into a handcart. His new Steward, chosen because he had connections to the Grey Quarter and the Assemblage but was steadier than Bjarni, wasn’t above swinging an axe in the defence of civilians. “The Argonians need a hetman anyway. Why not her?”

Egil paused and studied Shahvee. The Argonian tilted her head, her golden eyes steady. What he’d taken for a cloth veil at the back of her head was in actuality a fine semi-transparent membrane. He blushed as he recalled her blithe disregard for watching eyes when she changed into the armour on the docks.

“If you feel you owe me a debt, so be it,” he finally said with a sigh. He shoved his queasiness over executing Calder to the side. It was easier than it ought to have been, given the man had served his mother loyally for ten years. “Repay me, if your people will have you, as the Argonian representative to the Holdmoot. Bjarni’s been going on about it for a while and though my brother can be a hothead, he’s usually right in this sort of thing.”

“Your brother’s a volcano looking for somewhere to erupt,” Shahvee said bluntly. “The Dunmer might appreciate him but we of the Assemblage find him to be a colossal pain in the cloaca when we’re trying to work.”

Egil supposed that cloaca was the Argonian word for arse and given what Bjarni could be like, he could only agree with a laugh. He loved his brother but the intensity of his feelings and demeanour could be exhausting sometimes. Egil liked peace and quiet, routine and order, and Bjarni seemed almost allergic to all of that.

Brunwulf chuckled and Helga outright roared with laughter.

“Shahvee will become the hetwoman of the Argonians,” the Argonian continued. “We have not fared well outside of our native Black Marsh, but we're determined to make the best of things. I began praying to Zenithar, the god of wealth, to bring us some fortune, and it seems he finally has by delivering a good Jarl to Windhelm’s throne.”

Egil blushed at the warm praise in her soft voice. “I, er, thank you.”

Brunwulf picked up a rusty iron shovel left by the dead bandits. “We need to bury these louts, though I wager I’m tempted to throw them all into the sea where they belong.”

“Please don’t,” Shahvee said. “The Argonians have enough problems without sea-ghosts to bother us.”

“I can save you some work,” Egil said softly, calling his magicka to hand. “Sun’s Fire can lay even the most unquiet dead to rest by turning corpses into ash.”

“I didn’t know Nords could hold the sun in their hand,” Shahvee remarked in awe to Helga.

“Egil trained with the Vigilance of Stendarr. He’s practically a paladin but he couldn’t take vows as one because Ulfric needed him too much,” the archer responded with a shrug.

It took the last of his magicka to reduce the renegades – and Calder – to ash that was blown away by Kyne’s good clean wind.

Shahvee swam across the harbour to get her brethren to help carry the furniture, food and other household items back to the Assemblage while Egil, Helga and Brunwulf loaded the arms and armour into the handcart for Oengus War-Anvil to make use of. Scouts-Many-Marshes, who seemed to a foreman on the docks, and a couple younger Argonians arrived with two skiffs to carry it all back to Windhelm. “Neetranaza can use the bed. His back’s gotten worse without the skooma,” he was saying to Shahvee.

“The _what_?” Egil yelped.

“His back got broken up a few years ago when crates fell on him in the warehouse,” Shahvee said sadly. “Skooma’s about the only thing that lets him work through the pain. I know it’s not good but if you don’t work, you don’t eat or have a pallet. Suvaris is strict on that and I know it isn’t her fault, because Torbjorn squeezes every septim he can until it squeaks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Brunwulf demanded of the male Argonian.

“You rarely leave the city and we’re not exactly allowed inside,” Scouts-Many-Marshes countered. “We do thrice the work for a tenth of the pay.”

“Windhelm has been hard on my people. But our fortunes will turn and we have shelter and food,” Shahvee said simply. “Good honest work staves off the cold and there’s plenty of clams, barnacles and fish eggs on the harbour shores.”

“Torbjorn was like this before he lost his daughter?” Egil asked softly.

“Oh yes,” Scouts-Many-Marshes said.

Egil allowed himself a few choice words from Bjarni’s extensive vocabulary. The situation was even direr than he realised.

“Would the Jarl take it the wrong way if we told him he said ‘sload-fucker’ wrong in Khajiit?” asked one of the younger Argonians in Jel.

“Do you want to ask him?” the other observed.

“No. Nords don’t take correction well.”

“Blame my brother,” Egil growled. “He taught me.”

“His brother’s the one who likes Dunmer barmaids,” Scouts-Many-Marshes said with a laugh.

“We got that. No one else can swear like that,” the youngest Argonian said.

“He speaks Jel,” Shahvee interrupted. “And he is giving us this food and furniture. Have some respect.”

“A Nord who isn’t a pain in the cloaca,” remarked the youngest. “What’s next, a Khajiit giving fair weight?”

“No, it’ll be a dragon,” said the other cheerfully.

“Enough!” Shahvee hissed. “He’s nice.”

“Shahvee’s in love, Shahvee’s in love!” laughed the youngest.

The vivid colours in her face deepened. “And if you two don’t get those boats across the harbour, I’ll have you cleaning out the latrine pit.”

The two adolescents couldn’t get out of there soon enough, much to Egil’s relief.

Egil inhaled some of the cold clean air. “Let me look at the Assemblage. If Torbjorn objects, I’ll apply my foot so firmly to his cloaca that he’ll be footwear.”

“Nords have cloacas? Truly, this is a day of marvels,” Scouts observed.

And that was how Egil learned that cloacas weren’t just arses.


	5. Imagine Your Mother's Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of emotional trauma, torture and child abuse.

Ralof stared in fascinated horror as the dragon fell towards the ground, Calli directly in its path. While the woman was irritating beyond belief, he didn’t want Bjarni to watch his sister being crushed by a monster from legend.

But with a snarl of effort and both hands glowing blue-green, Calli deflected the dragon just enough for it to take out a stand of birch trees by the river. Ralof blew out a breath in shock. How powerful a mage was she?

Then _that_ became moot as the dragon’s flesh began to burn away after its last despairing cry, the fire spiralling around Calli in a blaze of gold-violet light. Before they could even react, the beast was bleached bones scattered among broken trees.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Bjarni’s curses sounded more like a litany of prayers.

This foul-mouthed guttersnipe spawn of the Stormsword was…

Talos have mercy, she was the Dragonborn of legend.

“DOVAHKIIN!” thundered the monks overhead, shaking the entire mountain and leaving no doubt as to who she was.

Guards in the Rift’s purple came running across the bridge. “It’s her! It’s the Dragonborn!”

Ralof winced, waiting for another obscenity-laden tirade from Calli, but she’d already fainted. Sighing, he walked over and picked her up. There was no chance of sending her to Riften now. She was too important.

Bjarni gave a few orders to the guards to dismember the dragon’s corpse and see what could be done with the bones before walking over to Ralof. “I told you it was a good idea,” he said with a grin.

Ralof grunted, not trusting himself to speak. “We should get her into bed. If she dies on us, we’re all dragon-food.”

The innkeeper was only too pleased to give the best bed in the house to the Dragonborn, which left the second-best one for Bjarni and a pallet by the fire for Ralof. Having had little sleep since before they reached Bruma, then hauling Calli to Ivarstead, and ending it all with a dragon fight… The pallet was more welcome than a place at Ysgramor’s table in Sovngarde at the moment.

In the grey light of predawn, Calli’s screams shattered the silence and brought Ralof out of slumber, his hands groping blindly for a warhammer left in the rack at the door. When he realised who it was, he groaned and rolled off the pallet. It was almost time to get up anyway.

By the time he entered the room, Calli’s screaming had ceased, the Dragonborn seated upright in her wide bed with her face buried in her hands. Lynly, the Vilemyr’s barmaid, had removed her patched homespun dress before putting her to bed and the ragged cotton chemise had slipped off one shoulder. Calli turned over, shoulders shaking, and he saw the keloid scars of repeated whipping across her olive-bronze back.

“Fuck off,” she said, her voice thick with tears.

Remembering when Ulfric lashed out in anger, driven beyond will and endurance by the memories of his suffering at the hands of the Thalmor, Ralof sighed. He should have recalled that Calli had survived Bruma and the worst short of Blue Carp Prison the Empire could inflict. It wasn’t healthy how she coped with it, but that rage had saved her from breaking completely.

“Just imagine the expression on the Emperor’s face when he discovers you’re the Dragonborn,” he said dryly.

Whatever she imagined, it wasn’t pretty, because her shudder was hard enough to make the bed squeak.

“Or if that doesn’t work, imagine your mother’s expression in Sovngarde,” he said helpfully.

“She wouldn’t be there,” Calli answered acerbically. “Tsun would throw her into the chasm under the Whalebone Bridge.”

Ralof grinned. “There’s a pleasant thought.”

She looked over her shoulder, tear tracks on her cheeks. Tousled black hair framed a square-jawed, high-cheekboned face that proclaimed her Kreathling blood to the skies but the Stormsword never had that Colovian raptor’s beak or the wide, thin-lipped mouth bracketed by smile lines. Too thin for a Nord woman, shorter than she ought to be, but Ralof supposed her growth had been stunted by poor food. All the Nords born in Bruma during and after the Great War were scrawny and undersized, beards shaved and hair cropped in the Cyrod manner.

“I imagine dragon souls aren’t very tasty,” Ralof said after a long awkward moment. “You’ll need a good breakfast if we’re climbing the seven thousand steps.”

“Seven… thousand… steps…” Calli said weakly.

“The Greybeards called you. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.” Ralof smiled. “Besides, if you don’t hurry, Bjarni will inhale all the food. Boy’s got an endless chasm for a stomach.”

“Food. Yeah, food.” Calli sighed. “I saw you packing my things. Did you get my clothing?”

“Uh. No,” Ralof admitted. “I just grabbed alchemy and sewing stuff, I think.”

“Idiots. If you’d come to me quietly, I might have…” She shook her head. “You took my choices away. I’ve got friends who will wonder if I was finally dragged off to Blue Carp Prison or buried in a shallow grave somewhere. Whatever your intentions were, Rollo, it’s going to take a long time for me to forgive that.”

“I’m Ralof. Ralof Storm-Hammer.” He sighed. “I understand. It was a damnfool thing to do. I’d blame Bjarni, but I agreed to help him. If it’s any consolation, Egil will probably chew him out.”

He turned away. “Just remember – Bjarni’s a kid who just lost his mother and father. He didn’t even wait once he went through his mother’s papers and found out you existed. Egil told him it was a bad idea but he had to save his sister from the Imperials that killed his parents. Just… try to be kind.”

“I’ll try,” she promised.


	6. The Second Dragonborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes and religious conflicts.

“My, you’re so strong,” cooed the farmgirl with the big brown eyes as Bjarni and Ralof dragged in the last bear carcass. Big black brutes they were, ten in number, rank with musk and the stench of rotting meat. Their skulls had been crushed with a warhammer and Calli eyed the weapon slung across Ralof’s back with a new understanding.

Their climb up the Seven Thousand Steps had been delayed by the hetwoman’s request that the bears attacking pilgrims and scratching up the lumber that was Ivarstead’s main export be dealt with. So Bjarni and Ralof had gone out in the morning, returning with one carcass at a time while Lynly, Fastred and Boti prepared the smokehouse for the surplus of meat and the auburn-haired Bosmer Gwilin handled the butchering and skinning with the help of Klimmek. Wilhelm brought out his biggest iron cauldron to make a rich stew with the blood and organ meats while Bassianus was set to cleaning out the intestines for the sausages that would be made from the minced scraps. Narfi the mad beggar was puttering around at the riverbank while Jofthor was harvesting cabbage and potatoes for the stew everyone would share tonight. Life was surprisingly communal in the little village.

As for herself, she cut firewood. It was a simple enough chore, one she was used to, and she really didn’t feel comfortable sitting around idle while others worked.

By sunset, the bears and a couple hapless deer were skinned, butchered and prepared, their hides soaking in tannin to be turned into furs or leather, and the skeletons ready to be transformed into bone tools. From Boti’s comments, they now had enough meat for the winter and the honey the bears had guarded could be harvested for mead and preservation purposes.

“Among themselves, they barter or share everything communally,” Ralof said when Calli asked who owned what around here. “It’s like that in most smaller towns in Skyrim. My Riverwood was much the same, though we had a general trader and a blacksmith because we were the overnighting point between Falkreath-town and Whiterun.”

“Sounds a bit like the Guild in Bruma,” she observed. “Mutual assistance and protection.”

“If the Thieves’ Guild is the closest comparison you can make to living as a rural Nord, it breaks my heart to see what the Bruma Nords have become,” Ralof said sadly. “I knew it was bad. But this…”

“The Guild’s always been like that for the poor in the cities,” Calli said testily. “I hear the Skyrim Guild’s lost its way though. Corvus says Mercer Frey’s as bent as a Bravil septim.”

“I wasn’t referring to that. Bruma Nords would betray each other to the Thalmor for a handful of coin or to gain respite from the Justiciars or to have a meal in their bellies,” Ralof retorted. “You scrabble in the dirt for refuse-“

Calli slapped him hard across the cheek, the sound of palm meeting flesh startling everyone as they made the final preparations for dinner.

“We rebelled three times, damn you!” she yelled. “The first time, the Legion let the Thalmor massacre the Blades at Cloud Ruler Temple and raze the Great Chapel of Talos with several worshippers in it. The second, the remnant Blades rallied what was left of the northern Akaviri clans and the Legion exterminated them in a pitched battle at Sancre Tor. And the last time… the Thalmor butchered civilians until the Blades who’d holed up in the Serpent’s Trail surrendered.”

She rubbed her stinging hand, tears in her eyes. “Where the fuck were you Stormcloaks? I know messages were sent to Ulfric asking for help. We received nothing and we died for it! _Bruma died so you Stormcloaks had the chance to prepare for your own rebellion!_ ”

Ralof looked away. “All I know is that Sigdrifa convinced Ulfric there was no hope for the Blades.”

“Of course she did.” Calli’s laughter was harsh. “The Blades knew too much about her.”

She spread her hands. “What I am, what Bruma has become, is because there was no help from Skyrim. The next time you pray to Talos, ask him why he couldn’t be arsed to save his own worshippers.”

Sick and heart-sore, she went to bed. She had no appetite for a feast.

…

“Are you sure investigating a haunted barrow’s a good way to deal with this?” Ralof asked dubiously as they crossed the village to Shroud Hearth Barrow. Wilhelm had mentioned the ghost last night after Calli went to bed, saying it was giving the folk at Fellstar Farm a good fright. Since draugr were relatively harmless and Bjarni had a lot of anger to work out, he agreed to take care of it.

“The other option is returning to Windhelm, digging up my mother’s corpse and throwing it into the sea where it belongs,” he countered. “But that might distress Egil more than he will be already.”

“I was thinking absolutely no one needed or wanted the Stormsword around as a sea-ghost,” Ralof said dryly.

Bjarni laughed harshly. “You never did like her, did you?”

“She mistrusted me from the first day and…” Ralof sighed. “I’ve done dark things for Skyrim’s freedom, but there are lines I won’t cross. Sigdrifa didn’t just cross them, she used the entrails of the innocent as a skipping rope and justified it all in the name of Talos. We must have standards.”

“It gets worse, doesn’t it?”

“Infinitely. Calli’s resentment is just the tip of the iceberg.” Ralof rubbed his bruised cheek. “Did you hear she used ‘we’ when talking about the rebellion? I think she was part of it.”

“I heard that too,” Bjarni confirmed. “So, let’s deal with this ghost.”

The ‘ghost’ was a Dunmer driven mad by imbibing some odd alchemical concoction that Bjarni saved for Calli to examine. She’d been a jill of all trades in Bruma but much of her coin came from alchemy. Maybe it would even distract her from… everything.

They told Wilhelm and the innkeeper swore before giving them the sapphire claw to the tomb’s puzzle door. “Only way I can pay ye,” he said apologetically.

“How’s the Dragonborn?” Ralof said carefully.

“Still pissy. Can’t blame her though, if what she said about Bruma’s true. But she’s makin’ cures for us.”

“It’s true,” Ralof admitted heavily.

“I’m for a free Skyrim just as any true Nord would be because Gwilin’s told me stories about how evil the blackcoats are,” Wilhelm continued. “But… reckon there’s much the Stormcloaks could do better.”

“Aye,” Bjarni agreed.

He and Ralof explored Shroud Hearth Barrow, finding one of the Word Walls with KAAN, the first Word in a Shout. Bjarni’s gift for languages had always extended to Dovahzul and he wondered if he could at least teach Calli a few Words. It might sweeten her temper a little.

Or it might give her new and exciting ways to insult their mutual ancestry.

Thanks to their efforts, every guard in Ivarstead now had a steel weapon, everyone would have a bearskin mantle or shawl, and there was meat enough for winter and bone for all the tools that they needed. His parents’ demands of Laila Law-Giver and the other Jarls had meant rural communities were stripped of resources and protection. The understanding that Tullius was even more ruthless in the Imperial Holds didn’t make Bjarni feel better.

He didn’t see Calli again until the morning of their third day in Ivarstead. According to Fastred, who oohed and aahed over him and Ralof, she’d spent most of her time chopping wood, picking herbs and making cures. Ivarstead, barring a disaster, was set for the winter. They were fortunate compared to other settlements.

“When are we climbing this damned mountain?” she demanded when they woke up.

“Glad to see you’re eager to embrace your destiny,” Bjarni said with a smile.

Calli’s response was pity and profane. Bjarni took notes. His sister was an excellent source of new swear words.

KAAN turned out to be a Word that calmed animals, so the beasties on the Seven Thousand Steps weren’t much of a problem, though the troll provided some entertainment along the way. Calli even picked up her ice-wraith scars, which would dispel any criticism of her not being a true Nord.

Then, when they were skinning the troll for fat, bone and hide, a dragon paid a call. Ralof bellowed at Calli to run for High Hrothgar while he and Bjarni held it off. She could have been a bit more reluctant to do so, Bjarni thought glumly as he prepared to defend the hope of the world against the monster.

The idiot thing got itself stuck in the overhang in its eagerness to go for Bjarni and after that, Ralof’s warhammer gave it a lesson in why wedging yourself into a tight space ended badly for winged engines of destruction. With a cry of despair, it perished, flesh burning away as the first one had.

But Calli was nowhere to be seen and there was the taste of fire and blood in Bjarni’s mouth.

Akatosh, for whatever reason, had brought forth two Dragonborn.


	7. Salmon Cakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, war crimes, criminal acts, religious conflict, torture and imprisonment.

“Come one, come all, see the rare sight of a Nord noble doing honest labour!” Laughs-In-Joy called out in Jel, earning laughter from the other Argonian dockworkers. “And a rare beast it is indeed – Torbjorn Shatter-Shield himself!”

Watching the skinflint who owned the biggest shipping company in Skyrim carry lumber and nails to the carpenter repairing the holes in the Assemblage’s walls was a joyous occasion indeed. Shahvee was just surprised that he was complying when she knew Thanes could (and did) tell their Jarls what to do instead of the other way around.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” she said to one of the Stormcloak guards on the docks, a woman who was civil to the Argonians no matter what, “Will there be any trouble from this? Shahvee only wants things to be made right, not for anyone to be embarrassed.”

The guard shook her head with a laugh. “No, hetwoman. Torbjorn told Jarl Egil he could do anything you lot did in half the time and was held up to it.”

Shahvee nodded slowly. “It does not look like he can.”

“I feel for the man, losing his daughter to a murderer, but he treated his workers poorly before it all happened. Maybe the gods taught him a lesson.” She sighed. “Shame about Friga. She was a good girl.”

“Did they catch the killer?” Shahvee asked softly.

“No. It was the Butcher.” The guard shuddered. “No female guard is on night shift now and Jarl Egil’s given orders for the male guards to escort any woman who needs to be out after dark, be she Nord or not.”

Shahvee hissed. “That one killed an Argonian! And a Khajiit girl, I heard!”

“He’s gotten…” The guard counted off on her fingers. “Friga Shatter-Shield, Fjotli Cruel-Sea, nearly killed Susanna the Wicked except some Redguard mercenary saved her, some lass from Keld-Nar and now two of you beast-folk. Jarl Egil wants him caught but no one can find a trace or clue.”

A murderer had killed two women of noble blood and a farmgirl, attempted to murder a barmaid, and had taken young Juneen and the Khajiit girl too. Shahvee inhaled deeply. This was something she could do. “Have the guards tried? Shahvee does not wish to cast blame but…”

“No, it’s a fair question. Before, the Stormsword said the guards were needed elsewhere before the war, and now since we’ve been sent to purge all the bandits and necromancers in the Hold…” She sighed again. “The Jarl wants to hire a sellsword or even a Companion, but where will we find five hundred or a thousand septims? Mercenaries aren’t cheap.”

“Shahvee has found things before. I will go to him.” Egil had relaxed the restriction on Argonians entering the city, though the tensions with the Grey Quarter Dunmer meant they couldn’t be moved inside the walls yet. The dark elves had always gotten on better with his brother because Bjarni didn’t preach the Aedra to them.

“That would win a lot of the nobles over,” agreed the guard. “I know how much work you do, but most of them can’t be bothered to leave Valunstrad and so never see it. If you can bring the Butcher to justice, you’d have the Shatter-Shields and Cruel-Seas on your side.”

Shahvee nodded. “I need to run an errand anyway.”

Five minutes later, she was walking up to the Sea Gate with a bundle in her hands, nodding nervously to the guards. It was still difficult to not duck her head to them, but Brunwulf had said that if she laid down and acted like a carpet, the Nords would walk all over her, and as a hetwoman she owed her people confidence. Scouts would have made the better leader but Egil seemed to prefer her – maybe because she’d fought alongside him. Nords were impressed by that sort of thing.

“Hetwoman,” greeted one of the guards. “Not to be rude, but we need to check the bundle. Jarl’s orders for anything from the Sea Gate.”

“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m smuggling in some salmon cakes,” Shahvee said as she unwrapped the cloth to reveal the brown-glazed dish. “I heard Jarl Egil likes them and no one makes them as well as we Argonians do.”

The guard sniffed appreciatively. “Is that frost mirriam?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I add snowberries to the mix.”

“Ooh,” said the other. “I need to try that.”

“Maybe I will open a seafood stall on the docks and sell them,” she mused.

The guard chuckled as he got the gate. “Why not? It’s a long walk to the barracks and dinner’s usually cold by the time we knock off.”

The respect from Nords was a new thing. Shahvee had always tried to look on the bright side of things since she’d left Bruma but sometimes it had been hard when faced by the unrelenting poverty and cruelty of Windhelm. It wasn’t good to think ill of the dead but she felt a certain amount of relief both Ulfric and Sigdrifa were gone. Egil was a much better Jarl.

The Grey Quarter was looking better than the last time she’d been here, allowed in with a bribe to one of the more corrupt guards, the snow being shovelled into barrows by a couple disconsolate Nords under the eye of an officer in bearskin armour. “I thought Bjarni was bad enough,” groused one to the other. “He just drank with the greyskins. Egil’s making us their servants!”

“And letting scaleskins walk around like they’re Nords,” muttered the other, looking pointedly at Shahvee.

“Maybe if you’d acted like a Nord instead of getting drunk on night watch and letting the Butcher murder that beggar woman, you wouldn’t be cleaning the streets,” the officer said flatly.

Shahvee quickened her steps. That was six victims now.

The Palace of the Kings was an imposing three-winged building that hunkered over the rest of Windhelm like a dragon surveying its prey. Stormcloaks in their blue and bearskins ran around urgently under the command of a grey-haired old warrior whose face was lined with grief. Galmar Stone-Fist, Shahvee recalled; he’d been Ulfric’s husband or something. It was confusing because Ulfric had been married to Sigdrifa.

Then again, if Shahvee had been married to someone like Sigdrifa for hatchlings, she’d probably want another spouse too. Galmar’s main sins were that his brother was a racist arsehole, he liked to kill goldskin elves and that he thought everyone should be as devoted to the Stormcloaks as he was. Not too bad as Nords went.

“Liz-boo-scale,” the gruff old man swallowed the reflexive insults his kind threw at hers. “ _Woman_. Is something wrong? Torbjorn too drunk to work?”

“No. Avulstein’s keeping him busy and he’s trying his hardest,” Shahvee said diplomatically.

Galmar snorted. “You must be Shahvee. Egil said you’d find something nice to say about a vampire.”

Shahvee felt her facial scales tighten at the compliment. “He’s a good man… Jarl.”

The old warrior sighed. “Boy’s going to work himself into an early grave trying to fix everything. We need to win Skyrim first and worry about the mess afterwards.”

“That is easy for you to say, Lord Galmar. You wouldn’t be counted as the mess,” Shahvee said quietly. “Ulfric never hurt the Argonians. I can say that much about him. But that wife of his…”

“Sigdrifa lived by holy scripture. Everything she did, Talos had done in some way or another,” Galmar said with another sigh. “Egil tells me Stendarr came to Nirn to teach Talos had to be a good ruler. He’s the priest of Stendarr, so I’ll take his word for it.”

He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “You’re a kind lass. Pity you’re not a Nord. You’d be good for Egil.”

“Shahvee knows I can’t marry a Nord Jarl,” she assured him, though she did feel a pang. Egil really would make a good husband. “So I will be his friend instead.”

Galmar nodded. “You Argonians aren’t half the problem the Dunmer are. I wish Bjarni was here. Boy could settle them down like no one else.”

Shahvee pondered her next words. “Maybe if you stopped your brother from yelling at them, they’d be more likely to be less trouble? If Rolff called me a scaleskin slut like he called Suvaris Atheron a greyskin one, I wouldn’t be very happy.”

“Maybe.” Galmar sounded dubious.

She smiled. Galmar’s head was mostly bone, so it would need to seep into his brain over the next few days. “Is Egil busy? I have some food for him and some word on the Butcher. He’s killed Neetranaza’s youngest hatchling Juneen and a Khajiit girl from Ri’saad’s caravan.”

“Two more.” Galmar sighed. “Unless you’ve got a clue about the murderer, I don’t think it will help. Egil’s driving himself into exhaustion questioning everyone about last night.”

“Shahvee has something you Nords don’t have,” she said simply. “Shahvee has a nose. I will tell him to rest, eat his salmon cakes, and see if I can find this murderer myself.”

Galmar’s gaze brightened. “You’re a hetwoman. Get Brunwulf to write you out a writ giving you limited authority to question people and perform searches. If you need muscle, come to me. I want to kick in a few doors since my Jarl commanded me to wait until Skyrim was free before I can join him in Sovngarde.”

Shahvee patted his shoulder. “First, we will make sure Egil rests. If he dies, Bjarni becomes Jarl, and while I am sure he is a good man he is also a very big pain in the cloaca for we Argonians.”

“That’s if Bjarni returns from his fool’s errand,” Galmar said with a sigh. “But you’re right. Egil likes salmon cakes. His favourite food might soothe him a bit since he doesn’t drink.”

“Don’t worry,” Shahvee assured him as they entered the Palace of the Kings. “Shahvee’s salmon cakes are delicious and we all know the way to a Nord’s regard is through his stomach.”


	8. Blood on the Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. I’ve never really explored Egil’s autistic experiences in depth; this story will change that.

When Egil had imagined himself as Jarl, he’d seen himself as a kinder version of his father, giving orders to his subordinates, passing just decrees at the Holdmoot, and bringing the justice and mercy of Stendarr to Eastmarch. Bjarni was sort of somewhere between Galmar and Jorleif in these imaginings because he was better with people, loved to talk and could charm the pearls from an oyster. It couldn’t have been that hard, right?

Now, faced with a mountain of paperwork on his desk, rampant corruption and racism in his government, and a murderer running loose on the streets without being apprehended for nearly a year, he realised it looked so easy because his parents hadn’t done their jobs properly. Ulfric and Sigdrifa had been so intent on their rebellion that they’d let Eastmarch fall into wrack and ruin. The authorised bandits and the Butcher and the leaky Argonian Assemblage were only the tip of the iceberg. No wonder so few people had faith in the Stormcloak cause.

_Dammit, I should have told Bjarni no,_ he thought glumly as another guard made excuses for not doing anything about the Butcher. _I need him and Ralof here._

Shahvee, entering the office with a bundle in her hands and Galmar talking to her in a friendly tone, was a sight for sore eyes. He knew what Galmar would say if they became more than friends and as much as he hated to admit it, he was right. Assuming he could even marry her, only the child of a Nord could become a Jarl, and he was pretty sure Argonians and Nords couldn't have offspring. Not that the more rabid Stormcloaks wouldn’t immediately revolt if they thought he was having a romantic affair with an Argonian. Even the most tolerant Nords would suggest he keep Shahvee as a piece on the side and marry a good Nord woman, like his father had done with Galmar. But Shahvee was too good a woman to deserve that.

“Shahvee has learned you are not eating and brought you some salmon cakes,” the lizard-woman announced with a smile. “Galmar tells me he will sit on you until you eat and rest.”

“Salmon cakes!” Against his will, his mouth began to water. Meals served in the Palace of the Kings had always been simple, Ulfric and Sigdrifa preferring a show of austerity to the legendary feasts of Nord legend. His mother had eschewed anything too heavily salted or spiced, drinking water or juice, eating plain foods more suited for a churl’s table. Egil, not overly fond of the spicy dishes Bjarni craved, usually didn’t mind but he did enjoy salmon cakes. They were a rare treat.

Galmar chuckled fondly. “Shahvee’s a good lass. Will you step away from the desk for a few hours or will I need to put you to bed like a lad again?”

“The Butcher-“ Egil protested. Those salmon cakes smelt really good.

“Shahvee tells me she can track him by scent,” Galmar said gruffly.

“Like hell she is!” Egil yelped. “He’s killed four women, nearly killed a fifth-“

“He got Neetranaza’s hatchling Juneen and a Khajiit girl,” the Argonian interrupted sadly. “Your guards are busy, Egil, and you cannot afford a sellsword. Shahvee will find him and Galmar will kill him.”

“No confronting,” Egil said firmly. “He’s going on trial.”

Galmar grunted. “Fine. If you insist.”

Knowing when to quit while he was ahead, Egil turned his attention to the salmon cakes. “Want some?” he asked, remembering his manners.

“Already ate one. Delicious,” Galmar said, smacking his lips.

“Shahvee has already eaten,” the Argonian told him. “Eat.”

Even lukewarm, the cakes were delicious, frost mirriam and snowberries producing a belly-warming zing he rather liked.

“Now you’ve eaten, get some sleep,” ordered Galmar gruffly.

Egil sighed, the sound broken by a yawn. “Fine. But no hunting the Butcher until I’m awake.”

…

“Galmar!” Yrsarald saluted smartly despite the late hour. “What are you doing here?”

“Hunting the Butcher,” the Stone-Fist said gruffly. “Egil wants him put on trial and Shahvee says Argonians can track people by scent.”

The lithe Argonian, whose scales gleamed like a pile of gems in the flickering lamplight, went for the pile of quilted leather gambesons and iron-headed spears reserved for new recruits. Galmar had never really considered the Argonians much, seeing as they worked hard and didn’t bitch the way the Dunmer did, but Shahvee seemed like a sensible girl. If she was a Nord, Galmar would be throwing her and Egil together as much as possible.

“This Butcher has killed an Argonian and a Khajiit too,” she said gravely, pulling her dress off over her head. Brunwulf had said the Argonians didn’t buy into the concept of modesty the way humans did, since cloth only got in the way in their native swamps, so Galmar said nothing. He still politely glanced away though. “Maybe finding him will make Torbjorn less angry.”

“Torbjorn brought it on himself,” Yrsarald told her bluntly. “He told Egil he could do anything you lizard… folk could do in half the time and now he looks like an idiot.”

“Shahvee pities him all the same.” She pulled on a gambeson and reached for a spear. “Friga never harmed anyone, Fjotli was always good to us, and Susanna brings around the leftover mead and ale from the Candlehearth Hall. For Juneen and the Khajiit girl and the others, the Butcher needs to be dealt with.”

“We should have done something ages ago, but Sigdrifa insisted we focus on the war effort,” Yrsarald admitted grudgingly. “It’s good to see the Argonians lending a hand.”

“We have no love for the Empire.” The Argonian paused. “Some of you Nords expect everything from us for nothing from you. It goes both ways, you know.”

“It was wrong that Torbjorn didn’t pay you fairly,” Galmar agreed.

“It was,” she said. “But Brunwulf pointed out that if we act like a Khajiit carpet, people will walk over us. The days of us smiling and taking shit from the Nords is over. We will help but we will not be abused.”

Galmar didn’t think they’d been that bad but then, Torbjorn had justified not fixing the leaks in the Assemblage because Argonians liked the wet. For all his money and savvy, the man didn’t know how to command loyalty from his people. To get, you had to give.

The Argonians, for all their alien features, understood that. Galmar realised they weren’t so different after all.

Making sure Egil was asleep, they left the Palace of the Kings and went down to the graveyard, where two of the murders had occurred. Brunwulf had already written up the writ of authority, but Galmar decided to do the talking of one of the guards got too mouthy. Shahvee was a lovely girl but some of those louts wouldn’t take kindly to being ordered around by a non-Nord.

“Blood was spilt here,” she said, sniffing at one of the gravestones. Then she wrinkled her nose. “Someone pissed on the one in the far corner.”

Galmar didn’t even need to guess which grave it was. Sigdrifa had made many enemies in her life.

“Fight-sweat here,” she continued, stopping where Susanna had been ambushed. “Redguard. Nightshade. Not fear-sweat, only fight-sweat.”

“A Redguard mercenary saved Susanna from the Butcher,” Galmar said gruffly. “She said he wielded a two-handed greatsword.”

“Oh. That one. Veezara says he’s a human Shadowscale.” Shahvee sighed. “He’s been to the docks a few times. Blue eyes like a Nord but has a Cyrod nose.”

“I know him.” Galmar sighed. “It’s complicated. He was an enemy of the Stormsword’s.”

“Was there anyone who actually liked her?” Shahvee asked. “I know she performed the Black Sacrament with at least two Argonians. There was some talk about throwing her into the harbour, armour and all, but none of us wanted to be haunted by a sea-ghost.”

“Argonians believe in sea-ghosts?” Galmar asked, choosing not to dignify her comments about Sigdrifa with an answer. Egil would be distressed if he knew the depths of her actions for Skyrim. Left alone by his love and lord, he had to wonder now if it was worth it.

“Of course we do. It’s a dare among the hatchlings to sneak in and out of Yngol’s Barrow.” Shahvee paused. “Please don’t mention that to the other Nords. We don’t desecrate the tombs. It’s just a test of courage.”

“Some tombs, like Yngol’s and Ysgramor’s, are off-limits,” Galmar rumbled as he followed her through the graveyard. “But Dragon Cult ones are always fair game. More so with the return of the dragons.”

“We’ll see if we can find another test of courage.”

“You could go and kill some ice wraiths like we Nords do,” he suggested.

“Not much of a challenge. The Hist has given Argonians the ability to adapt to new environments and most of us are able to swim in the coldest water.” Her snout quivered a little as she sniffed delicately. “Blood, this way.”

“Valunstrad,” Galmar said, looking up at the houses. “It’s the district of heroes.”

“Well, I can smell blood-scent and fear-sweat and excitement-sweat,” Shahvee said grimly. “Shahvee does not like that combination.”

Neither did Galmar. “I didn’t know there were different kinds of sweat.”

“It is as much taste as it is scent,” she admitted. “I’m… the words are hard to translate from the Jel. You Nords have fifteen words for snow, right?”

“Aye, and as nearly many for ice and wind,” Galmar confirmed.

“We have twenty-seven for sweat-scent, based on race, gender, emotion, activity and even time,” she told him. “This is… blood-scent is Nord, old, female, scared and hungry. Fear-sweat and excitement-sweat are male, maybe Cyrod but smells wrong, like dead flesh. Bone meal and lavender, of all things.”

Galmar shuddered. “Bone meal and lavender and dead flesh. That’s a necromancer’s scent.”

He nodded to the Hall of the Dead. “Helgird should be up. I’ll ask her.”

When the Priestess of Arkay told them Silda’s corpse was riddled with embalming tool marks and reeked of lavender, his grimmest suspicions were confirmed. They followed the scent to Hjerim. The necromancer had balls, doing his filthy work in the abandoned home of Friga Shatter-Shield.

“Let me open the door,” he growled, removing his battleaxe.

“I will be quieter.” She pulled out a lockpick and with a few jiggles, opened the door with far less noise. “I was a Thief back in Bruma once before I found Zenithar’s grace.”

“Bruma, eh?” Galmar tugged on his knotted beard as they both slipped inside. “You know a lass named Callaina?”

“Calli?” Shahvee closed the door and relocked it. “She’s an old friend of my mother’s. Egil makes me think of her a bit, except… well… Calli swears a lot more.”

“How’d she take being rescued from the Imperials?” Galmar wished they’d known all of this before Bjarni and Ralof took off.

“Calli can chew rocks and spit gravel. Anyone foolish enough to try and kidnap her would long for death.” Shahvee sniffed and led him to a wardrobe. “She has a good heart but her parents were traitors and the Cyrods made her suffer for it.”

She opened the wardrobe and revealed a false back. What they found in the room beyond…

Galmar threw up at the partly assembled corpse-effigy in the centre of the room.

Shahvee, unaffected, rummaged around and found a few things, including a jade-and-ebony amulet depicting a skull. “This doesn’t look good,” she said anxiously.

“We better,” Galmar said, swallowing bile, “Get Egil. He’s trained to deal with this sort of thing.”

…

Egil wasn’t happy to wake up and find Shahvee and Galmar had investigated the Butcher but he was relieved they had the sense to come to him. “Necromancer’s Amulet,” he said after a glance at the vile artefact. “Made by Mannimarco himself.”

He rose to his feet. “Let me armour up and grab my mace. Talk to Wuunferth, tell him what you’ve found, and come back to me. He’ll be able to pinpoint the next likely murder or some kind of suspect.”

“Shahvee said he smelt like a Cyrod,” Galmar rumbled.

“Do you feel like kicking down doors and dragging a world-famous author or a collector of curiosities from their beds without solid proof?” Egil asked grimly. “I don’t doubt her, but we need confirmation before I authorise arrests. My parents threw people in prison on a whim. I’m not them.”

The huscarl reluctantly nodded. “I’ll go ask Wuunferth.”

The court wizard came back with him, expression grim. “He’s trying to raise a lich,” he reported. “But I have the scent of him. Clairvoyance will lead me to him.”

Egil adjusted his chainmail and reached for his blessed mace. “Lead the way, Wuunferth.”

It was Calixto Corrium. Egil remembered that when Yrsarald questioned him about the murders, the Cyrod had claimed they were derived from old Nord funereal rites, hinting Wuunferth was to blame. He should have investigated more but his mother told him to worry about other things.

Calixto went from mortal flesh to lich to ghost, screaming obscenities and promises of a fate worse than death, but his sorceries were nothing compared to Stendarr-blessed steel and Sun’s Fire, the Talos-blessed steel of Galmar’s battleaxe, Shahvee’s iron-headed spear and Wuunferth’s lightning. His ashes were mixed with lye and salt by Helgird before being scattered across the harbour by Shahvee and the skooma-addled Neetranaza, whose daughter had died to the Butcher.

The examination of his papers… Galmar ran outside to throw up in horror while even Wuunferth, who had no compunctions about raising the enemy dead in combat, looked perturbed. Somehow, given everything else he’d learned, finding out his mother had sponsored Corrium’s studies was unsurprising. What was alarming was the news he’d been focusing on lich officers while one Lu’ah al-Skaven planned to raise an entire army at Anvilsund.

Egil went back to his mother’s grave, dug up her body himself, and cremated it with Sun’s Fire and mixed the ashes with salt and lye to make sure of her. Her armour was given to the Priests of Talos to cleanse with sun and salt while the stone was broken with hammers and buried in a midden pit. Then he dumped her ashes in a silver box, sealed it with blessed lead, and threw it into the harbour to be certain. Shahvee and the other Argonians piled rocks over where it fell, each one blessed by Helgird, to make sure she didn’t come back as a sea-ghost.

When he returned to the Palace of the Kings, he burst into tears, and when Shahvee gave him a hug Galmar chose to be tactful and say nothing. For that, Egil was grateful.

There was so much wrong he had to fix before he could even think of throwing the Empire out.


	9. No Understanding That Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. I love Bjarni but he can be an arse at times.

“So... a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age,” said the ancient Greybeard, a man with frost-and-iron hair with an aquiline profile and olive-bronze skin not unlike Calli’s. “We will see if you truly have the gift. Show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste of your Voice.”

“Would you prefer it spread on flatbread or mixed into your morning gruel?” Calli asked acidly. Beside her, Bjarni swallowed a laugh.

“Strike us with the power of your Voice,” the old man, who had to be Master Arngeir, answered testily. “Do not be afraid. Your Shout will not harm us.”

“KAAN!” she Shouted, the Word ringing out across the hall like the crack of thunder.

“Not FUS?” Arngeir asked in surprise.

“FUS!” Bjarni roared, knocking the Greybeard on his arse.

“Two? There’s _two_ of you?” Now Arngeir sounded alarmed.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Calli said fervently. “I don’t even want to be involved with this.”

“Involved you are, Dragonborn,” Arngeir said severely. “I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. Now, tell me, Dragonborn, why have you come here?”

“We’re answering the summons,” Bjarni spoke, for once serious.

“We are here to guide you in that pursuit, just as the Greybeards have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood that came before you,” Arngeir told him. “You are not the first. There have been many of the Dragon Blood since Akatosh first bestowed that gift upon mortalkind. As to why Akatosh has chosen two of you… even I cannot say.”

“It was Kynareth who gave humanity the Voice,” Calli said. “Those shrines outside said as much.”

“Kynareth gave humanity the capacity of the Voice but it is Akatosh who decrees which mortal possesses a dragon’s soul,” Arngeir retorted. “We are honoured to welcome the Dragonborn to High Hrothgar. We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfilment of your destiny.”

The other Greybeards filed in and he sighed. “Without training, you have already taken the first steps towards projecting your Voice into a Thu'um, a Shout. Now let us see if you are willing and able to learn. When you Shout, you speak in the language of dragons. Thus, your Dragon Blood gives you an inborn ability to learn Words of Power. All Shouts are made up of three Words of Power. As you master each Word, your Shout will become progressively stronger. Master Einarth will now teach you ‘Ro,’ the second Word in Unrelenting Force. Ro means ‘Balance’ in the dragon tongue. Combine it with Fus – ‘Force’ - to focus your Thu'um more sharply.”

It was a very great pity Ulfric had never managed this trick of Shouting Words into floors, Ralof mused as Einarth did so, because the Stormcloaks would have a lot more Tongues. Even one Word of Unrelenting Force could win a lot of fights in a hurry.

“You learn a new word like a master... you truly do have the gift. But learning a Word of Power is only the first step... you must unlock its meaning through constant practice in order to use it in a Shout. Well, that is how the rest of us learn Shouts. As Dragonborn, you can absorb a slain dragon's life force and knowledge directly,” Arngeir continued, chagrin in his voice.

After that, they learned the first World of a Shout that would allow someone to dash ahead like the wind. Calli liked that one, judging by her expression. Then Arngeir told them to go to Ustengrav to find the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller before dismissing them.

“He wasn’t pleased to see either of us,” Calli observed once they’d left the monastery.

“Your father was a Blade and mine a fallen Greybeard,” Bjarni said. “Neither would have pleased him.”

“So he’s just like every other cleric I’ve met – a self-righteous arse.”

“Egil likely won’t change that belief.” Bjarni looked down at Ivarstead and sighed. “We better kill every dragon in the Rift before we return to Windhelm or Laila will never let us hear the end of it.”

“You’re still going to drag me to Windhelm?” Calli asked in disbelief.

“Well, where else will you go? The Empire won’t be pleased to discover you’re Dragonborn, given the rumours about the Aurelii,” Ralof reminded her. “The dragons will hunt you down because you’re a threat to them… and since you’re a lot scrawnier than Bjarni, they’ll see you as the easier foe.”

Calli went puce and Ralof waited for the inevitable cursing. But instead she stormed off ahead, feet turning up little puffs of snow. He supposed that was an improvement.

“I will never understand that woman as long as I live,” Bjarni said, shaking his head. “I get she’s angry we took her from Bruma but now she’s got the chance to know her family and be a true hero of legend! She’ll never be poor again!”

“I think choice is important to her,” Ralof said with a sigh. “We’ve taken all of them from her, at least until the dragons are dealt with.”

“The choice to live clanless, kinless and coinless?”

“She had friends and from I saw in Bruma, she was respected in the Mud Streets. Maybe part of the Guild there.” Ralof blew his hair from his eyes explosively. “She won’t fight the Empire. Tullius commands the Bruma Fourth and she might know folks in their ranks.”

“One Dragonborn will hasten the civil war’s end,” Bjarni said quietly.

Ralof nodded in agreement. “That it will.”

They walked down the Seven Thousand Steps, finding Calli at the first shrine at the mountain’s base. “Why me?” she was asking, crying, of the shrine – and obviously Kynareth. “Why me?”

“Go to the pub,” Ralof advised Bjarni softly. “She needs a sympathetic ear, not you telling her all the wonders of being a true Nord.”

The boy rolled his eyes and obeyed.

Ralof caught Calli’s hands before she beat the stone shrine with her fists. “You really don’t need bruised fists on top of everything,” he told her ruefully.

“I can cast Ironflesh,” she retorted, skin flashing blue-white as she did so. Ralof felt the flesh of her hands grow hard and smooth like crystal, every line and crease glinting in the light off the snow.

He let her wrists go. “Alright then, if hitting a shrine of Kynareth will make you feel better…”

“No,” she said glumly. “It wouldn’t.”

Ralof sighed. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen next. I know you need to go to Ustengrav, and that’s just outside Morthal, but Bjarni has a point about killing the dragons in the Rift and Eastmarch first. Both of you need more Shouts.”

“What I need is food, sleep and the opportunity to patch my dress since you forgot to bring my other two,” Calli said acidly.

“We’ll get you a new dress in Riften or Windhelm,” Ralof promised.

“If I can gather herbs and make some potions, I can buy my own.” Calli turned and headed towards Ivarstead.

Ralof sighed and followed her. There was no understanding that woman sometimes.


	10. Something She Could Handle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, criminal acts and corpse desecration.

The trip to Riften was long and meandering, their course determined by attacks by dragons, bandits, necromancers, animals and in one case a pair of vampires dressed up like Vigilants of Stendarr. Ralof became tolerable and even apologetic but Bjarni, empowered by the certainty of a dragon’s soul and a prophecy, refused to budge on the idea he might have done a bad thing by kidnapping her. He spoke of a house and a huscarl for her, the certain defeat of the Empire by not one but two Dragonborn, and a glorious future for Skyrim. By the time Riften came into view, Calli decided she’d had enough.

Here was a city known even in her native Bruma as a hive of scum and villainy. Skyrim’s Guild was based in Riften and even if Mercer Frey was as bent as a Bravil septim, she knew how to disappear in a poor quarter. A seamstress and alchemist could make a living anywhere and she knew enough Guild recognition signals to get an interview for protection. Skyrim’s Guild was poor and desperate; even a low-level alchemist would be a boon to them.

So as Ralof and Bjarni argued about the ‘visitor’s tax’ with the guard, she swallowed a bit of vampire dust and ducked into the city just before the gates closed on some well-dressed brunette girl. Colliding with her was an unfortunate side effect, but Calli was already apologising profusely in the best mimicry of a poor rural peasant’s accent she could muster.

“Hm? Sorry, just thinking about my experiments,” said the girl.

“Sorry, so sorry,” Calli said, backing away and eyeing the side gate. “I’ll let you get back to them.”

She ducked into the shadows just as Bjarni and Ralof strode in, the former blistering the air with curses at having to pay some tax. Calli had to stifle a laugh because she couldn’t believe he was actually stupid enough to pay it. Ralof was shaking his head in the long-suffering manner of a subordinate stuck with an idiot boss. She kind of felt sorry for him.

“I knew Stormcloaks weren’t smart but I didn’t think they’d fall for that,” the girl remarked with a laugh.

“Knowing Bjarni, he’s going to go up to wherever the Jarl lives around here and start bitching at them,” Calli agreed ruefully.

She groaned. “Even poor Laila doesn’t deserve that.”

Calli emerged from her hiding place. “Thanks, ma’am. I’ll leave you to your experiments.”

The girl waved her hand. “Oh, don’t worry about it. The only thing more tedious than listening to Bjarni Ulfricsson talk would be suffering his brother’s conversation. Neither of them are interested in what’s important.”

“You’re an alchemist,” Calli observed on seeing the familiar greenish stains on her fingers.

“I'm aspiring to earn that title, yes,” the girl said with a smile. “It's exhilarating to observe the effects of my potions on the body. Watching the heart stop... the eyes go blind. We're made up of thousands of parts with thousands of different functions all working in tandem to keep us alive. Yet if only a single part of our imperfect machine fails, life fails. It makes one realize how fragile... how flawed we are. You ask why I'm so fascinated? The irony... the irony that the same world that gave us life provides us the means to die.”

“I’ll stick to cures and leave the market for poisons to you,” Calli said dryly. “I’m sure there’s plenty of business for the both of us in a place like Riften.”

“Oh, it’s a pleasure to meet another alchemist!” the girl beamed, offering her hand. “Ingun Black-Briar.”

“Maven’s kid, right?” Calli asked as she shook her hand.

Ingun made a face. “Hmph. My family. All that wealth and they squander it on foolish ventures and political schemes.”

“I’ll trade you a few lessons in the herblore of Cyrodiil in return for some of that wealth,” Calli offered, liking the girl despite her very fucked-up worldview. Maven Black-Briar was known in Bruma circles as being twice as bent as Mercer Frey. They had an evil bitch of a mother in common.

“I can do that,” Ingun said with a smile. “Elgrim’s been teaching me but I fear I’m coming to the extent of his knowledge.”

“You’re awfully quick to trust me,” Calli noted as they took the side gate.

“You didn’t once flinch when I mused about the natural world and its effects,” Ingun countered. “Instead, you offered a practical opinion and an understanding that we need not be natural enemies as our spheres of influence would complement each other instead of clashing. That tells me you are motivated by profit instead of sentiment.”

“It’s more pragmatism than profit,” Calli said wryly. “Bruma isn’t exactly conducive to profit.”

“In Riften, it’s much the same,” Ingun observed. “I didn’t get your name. I mean, unless you’re deciding on a new one. I can give you a bit more time if you are because frankly, before anything else, you need a new dress and bath. I can supply both if you don’t mind servant’s garb…”

“Calli Clever-Hands,” Calli admitted. “I’m not changing my name, I’m just dodging a pair of idiots until they decide to return to Windhelm and do Stormcloak stuff.”

Ingun rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Mother’s been bitching at me to find an assistant. If you can procure twenty samples of nightshade, nirnroot and deathbell within a week…”

Calli laughed. “I found a nice crop of nirnroot, of all things, outside a farm on the way here. I, uh, might have helped myself to some. As for the rest, I already had it in stock.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! I used up all of Elgrim’s supplies because I got excited and…” Ingun sighed. “He’s an absolute dear but he’s too tolerant of my mistakes. Thankfully Hafjorg is more practical about things or he’d starve to death.”

“I know the sort,” Calli agreed ruefully.

Later on, after a wash in cold water and lye soap, Ingun apologising profusely that she couldn’t supply better lest her mother be wrathful, Calli donned a clean tan shift and brown dress of coarsely woven cotton. Her shoes had been replaced for a pair of old laced leather boots and Ingun had given her a pair of delicate silver scissors with which to trim her black hair.

There would be a price to pay for this largess but it was a relationship Calli understood well. Ingun might be fucked in the head but she wasn’t the kind of ruthless monster Maven was purported to be. Calli knew how to handle the likes of Maven too.

She smoothed down her dress in the copper mirror’s reflection. Still thin and worn from poverty, but that couldn’t be changed. Once she had access to regular meals, she’d fatten up.

No inconvenient family or unwanted obligations based on blood. Calli smiled. This was something she could handle.


	11. For Fuck's Sake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse and child abandonment.

“We need to find her!”

Ralof shook his head. “Good luck with that. Finding a woman with prior Guild associations in Riften will be almost as difficult as finding an honest Imperial. It’s going to take a couple dragon attacks to convince her of the necessity of working with us, but until then, she’ll want to put as much distance between herself and her kidnappers as possible.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Bjarni swore.

“Calli is self-centred because it’s the only way she’s been able to survive,” Ralof continued mercilessly. “Family? Abandoned her. Honour? Means nothing to her because she’s never seen it. Love? She may not believe in it.”

“I get that!” Bjarni yelled. “I’m not stupid!”

“No, you aren’t,” the hearthman agreed. “But you can’t imagine that someone might be unhappy they were torn away from their life, no matter how justified the reason. You and Egil would die for each other, as brothers should be. You think it should be that way with Calli, because it’s all you’ve known. Bruma’s Nords were broken, body and soul. Let Calli wallow in what she knows for a few weeks. When she realises Mercer Frey is nothing like Corvus, maybe she’ll be willing to work with us. Until then, she needs space.”

“I suppose we can’t rely on her to deal with the dragons?” Bjarni asked sourly.

“To be honest, she’s been holding us back. She’s not a good enough mage to hold her own and I’ve nearly been fried a few times covering her,” Ralof said with a shrug. “We’ve killed all the dragons in the Rift. We’ll tell Laila and then return to Windhelm after killing all the dragons in Eastmarch. Hopefully Egil will have a plan.”

Bjarni inhaled deeply and exhaled explosively. “You’re right. It’s just…”

“Your father sheltered you from much of your mother’s… pragmatism,” Ralof said. “You had me, Galmar and Egil. Calli had no one and from what I gather, Sigdrifa tried to raise her as a Shieldmaiden.”

Bjarni winced. He’d heard stories.

“So let’s leave her alone for now,” Ralof suggested as he turned for Mistveil Keep. “I’m sure Akatosh can do without her for a few weeks.”

He hoped Ralof was right. Because it stung that his own sister had run away from him as soon as possible.

…

Irkand steepled his fingers as the Bruma guards were escorted out, both of them sweating nervously. Corruption was rife in the county militia and getting irritated about a couple bribed guards would be like getting angry with water being wet. It was the two kidnappers that concerned him. Professionals, both of them. Ulfric having people of that calibre…

“Well, at least we can confirm she didn’t leave under her own power or will,” Gaius Maro the Younger said with a sigh, taking back tousled dark hair. A handsome young man with a velvet-on-gravel voice, he seemed oblivious to the admiring glances of those he passed… even before they knew he was the bastard grandson of the Emperor. Then desire turned to avidity.

“My niece has been many things but stupid has never been one of them,” Irkand agreed. “Ilak Tossinoff-“

Despite knowing it was a fake name, one of the Penitus Oculatus inevitably snickered.

“Ilak Tossinoff and Rollo, to use the names we known them by, are my concern. Professionals, both of them. I knew Ulfric had competent agents but someone of this calibre…”

“Two someones,” Gaius said with a sigh. “Now Rollo, I might have an idea. What was his description again?”

“Blond, rangy, handsome. Ilak was large, dark-haired, had a deep voice and they couldn’t tell if his eyes were blue or green.”

Gaius groaned. “That only confirms their identities. Rollo is probably Ralof, Ulfric’s chief thug outside of Galmar Stone-Fist, and the other had to be Bjarni Ulfricsson. Egil’s too… rigid… to make for a good covert agent.”

Irkand sat up, a chill running down his spine. “Could Sigdrifa have sent them to… to…?”

“To silence Calli?” Gaius finished gently.

“Arkay knows she’s cold enough to!”

“She tried twice. The assassins ran into Penitus Oculatus.” Gaius’ voice was grim. “None of us want to trigger the Madgoddess’ wrath by Calli accidentally dying.”

“If I had a hope in Oblivion, I’d take some time off and deal with that woman personally,” Irkand said flatly. “But she knows how I operate and she’d see me coming.”

Gaius nodded. “Agreed. I… Well, everything I know of Bjarni is that he’s extremely loyal, boisterous and very excessively Nord – to everyone, which irritates the racists. He might even have a Dunmer fetish, according to one of our agents.”

“Good way to irritate Sigdrifa and Ulfric,” Irkand said with a sideways quirk of the lips.

“If we’d been able to get him young, we could have made something of him,” Gaius said with a sigh. “Now, what I know of him, this might be a half-cooked scheme to rescue his half-sister from the evil Imperials.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Irkand said disgustedly. “Really?”

“The interdict doesn’t make us look good,” Gaius admitted. “But for all his brains, Bjarni’s sentimental and impetuous.”

Irkand sat back in his seat with a groan. “We need to find her. Your grandfather…”

“Father’s running interference. I know it’s not Calli’s fault.” Gaius pursed his lips. “Does she still have a gods-awful temper and tongue like a knife?”

“Yes.”

“Well then. She might just save us an execution by slicing him to death with her tongue.”

“One can live in hope. Stupid, stupid boy. He’s ruined her life, even if we rescue her.”

…

“Ah, now you must be lost. Best ya scurry off while you're able. The Ratway, well, it has a habit of swallowin' up the uninvited.”

Rustem smiled cheerfully at the shaven-headed Breton rogue, sitting himself down at the man’s table. “The Dark Brotherhood requires your services.”

The sour attitude vanished immediately in Mallory’s smile. “Oh. Oh I see. Well now, how is Astrid doin' these days? Tell her to stop by some time. We can have a drink. Catch up. Ah, but we can discuss that later, yeah? What does the Brotherhood need?”

“What can you tell me about this?” Rustem dropped the Elder Council amulet inscribed with Motierre’s name on the table in front of Delvin. He damned well knew what it was, but ‘impress me with what you know’ worked as well in haggling as it did in seduction.

“Let's see... where oh where did you get this? Don't answer - I don't want to know. This is an amulet of the Emperor's Elder Council. Specially crafted for each member. Worth a small fortune. Ain't somethin' you'd give up lightly. Look, it ain't my business ta tell the Dark Brotherhood its business, but if you killed a member of the Elder Council, you'd better belie-“ Delvin went silent as Rustem raised an eyebrow at him.

“It was given as down payment,” he said calmly. “Will you buy it?”

“Buy it? This? An Elder Council amulet? Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed. Wait just one moment... here. It's a letter of credit. Usable, by Astrid only, for any service or item I can provide. As per our standard arrangement. You bring that back to your lovely mistress. With my regards.” Delvin scribbled something on a piece of parchment before thrusting it into Rustem’s hands.

“You and I know very different Astrids if you think she’s lovely,” Rustem said dryly, tucking it into his pouch.

“I knew her before Arnbjorn came on the scene,” Delvin admitted with a chuckle. “Look… let me buy you a drink. I thought you were some merc lookin’ to cause trouble because some nob got pissy I swindled him.”

“I have a cover identity as a Redguard mercenary in the Old Holds,” Rustem confessed with a smile. “I don’t suppose you got Barley-Beard ale? Black-Briar mead tastes like piss.”

“Of course it does. Maven brews it with horker piss. The Reserve is made with her own,” Delvin laughed as he waved over the barkeeper.

It just wasn’t Barley-Beard, it was Barley-Beard Gold, the most expensive. Rustem popped the cork with his thumb, toasted Delvin with it in thanks, and took a long thirsty swallow.

The redhead who sold fake cures in the marketplace was arguing with an albino Cyrod woman who looked vaguely familiar and the bouncer. “I'm telling you, this one is different...”

The bouncer snorted. “We've all heard that one before, Bryn! Quit kidding yourself.”

The barkeeper stopped by them, placing a hand on the redhead’s shoulder. “It's time to face the truth, old friend. You, Vex, Mercer... you're all part of a dying breed. Things are changing!”

“Dying breed, eh?” Bryn declared triumphantly as a scrawny little brunette of indeterminate origin emerged from the shadows. “Well what do you call that then!”

“Lovely little tenants you have,” the woman observed sarcastically as she tossed the two heads she’d been carrying at his feet. “If Corvus ran so shoddy an operation, we’d pike their head at the gates of Castle Bruma.”

“Aw fuck,” Delvin swore. “She’s from the Cyrod Guild. Mercer’s gonna shit himself.”

“Well, well... colour me impressed, lass. I wasn't certain I'd ever see you again!” Bryn announced cheerfully.

“Getting here was easy. You want a challenge? Navigate the Serpent’s Trail blindfolded and drunk off your arse,” was the other Thief’s response.

“Reliable and headstrong? You're turning out to be quite the prize! So... now that I've whetted your appetite with our little scheme at the market, how about handling a few deadbeats for me?” Bryn tilted his head at her.

“I’ve already spoken to them. You’re taking protection money and not even providing it.” Scorn dripped from her contralto. “Now, if Ingun hadn’t convinced me this was a good idea, I’d stick around just long enough to make the coin to return to Bruma. But a successful Skyrim Guild’s in Corvus’ best interests, so I’ll show you amateurs how it’s really done.”

“Now just a damned minute,” Bryn began.

“Don’t,” Delvin called out from his seat. The albino Cyrod was nodding in agreement. “She’s one of Corvus’s people. They’ve all had Blades training. She could cut our throats, empty the vault and swing back to Cyrodiil before the week’s out.”

“Calli?” Bryn asked in disbelief. “Scrawny little had-to-get-a-dress-from-Ingun Calli?”

“It gets better,” Rustem said with a broad grin. “She’s my daughter.”

“He’s Dark Brotherhood,” Delvin supplied helpfully.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bryn swore.

Calli was smiling broadly. “Hi Dad. I was beginning to think Maro had finally caught up to you.”

“The bastard burned the Rusty Cup down… and the Children of Satakal with them,” Rustem said sadly. “What are you doing in Skyrim?”

“Mother spawned twice more and one of them’s got the brains Kynareth gave a gnat because he got the idea to rescue me from the evil Imperials,” Calli said with a sigh. “Did you know she died at Helgen?”

“I stopped by to pay her grave a visit,” Rustem said, grinning again. “Sigdrifa Stormsword’s grave is a gender-neutral urinal.”

Bryn burst out laughing. “I know what I’m doing next time I’m in Windhelm.”

Maybe Bryn wasn’t so bad after all.

“Father.” Calli’s voice was disappointed.

“I saved a woman from being murdered by a necromancer just afterwards,” Rustem said cheerfully.

“How you manage to lurch from petty to heroic in thirty seconds is beyond me,” she said as she tossed some coin to Bryn. “Why do I have the feeling your presence here portends trouble?”

“Not for us, my darling girl,” Rustem said with a smile. “I just delivered the down payment Armand Motierre gave me to assassinate everyone’s favourite decrepit arsehole.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she swore. “First dragons and now this. What’s next, a vampire uprising?”

“No. Next is you having a drink and a meal. You’re too damned skinny.”

“Make that several drinks. Being in close proximity to Maven Black-Briar’s enough to drive anyone to alcoholism.”


	12. Do the Least Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of imprisonment, criminal acts, religious conflict and war crimes. Telengard is one of Arthmoor’s mods.

“Pirates! Oh, for Stendarr’s sake, is there no maggot-ridden pie my mother didn’t stick her fingers in?”

Shahvee was delivering the customary tithe of smoked meat and tanned hides to the Palace of the Kings when Egil’s disgusted voice rang out from the office that the Stormcloaks called ‘the war room’. Jorleif, who’d been Ulfric’s Steward but now served as a lieutenant to Brunwulf Free-Winter, sighed and yelled back, “It was Torbjorn’s idea because your father didn’t have the coin to pay for his own navy like Torsten wanted. The pirates prey on the East Empire Trade Company and any other non-Nord ship-“

“-And leave the Shatter-Shield ones alone,” Brunwulf finished disgustedly. “Pity they’ve been attacking the horker hunters and deep sea fishermen who operate out of Telengard and the Pale.”

“They’ve been attacking Argonians and Skaal from Solstheim too,” Shahvee ventured.

“To Oblivion with that. Get Torbjorn and Torsten up here.” Egil’s voice was as iron. “Torbjorn can foot the bill and Torsten can prepare the ships. I won’t have pirates preying on my people.”

“My Jarl,” Jorleif said carefully. “The Empire has a superior navy to us, both merchant marine and military. Some of Torbjorn’s pirates are patriotic Nords.. privateers, if you will.”

“If they have continued to associate with the renegades, then they are no better,” Egil said firmly. “I have some ideas, Jorleif. They might have superior weaponry and soldiers, but we have Argonians who can breathe water and Nords immune to the cold of the pack-ice. I intend to neutralise this pirate fleet, execute the commanders who gave the orders for atrocities and the sailors who carried them out, and control the Sea of Ghosts.”

Shahvee approached the war room to see Brunwulf chew on his bottom lip. “I wish Ralof were here,” the Steward admitted. “He has a knack for discretion and tactics.”

“Wuunferth tells me he and Bjarni are alive and on their way back to Eastmarch. I get the impression his ‘rescue attempt’ didn’t go to plan,” Egil said with a sigh. “But I will make my plans as if they won’t be available. Bjarni’s a natural disaster wandering around Skyrim with only Ralof as adult supervision. Until he returns, I can’t rely on him.”

“Shahvee will ask around on the docks to see if anyone has military experience,” she offered. “I know sneaking is dishonourable by Nord standards, but if we can board the ships at night and secure the crew, we can sail them back to Windhelm for trial. Suvaris Atheron will know who’s who among the pirates. I think some of them are in the Pale.”

“I’ll handle Torbjorn,” Jorleif said after giving her a glance. “I… know he’s in disfavour, but he’s still a Thane, and he was obeying his Jarl’s orders. The man’s lost a daughter-“

“-Who we avenged,” Galmar Stone-Fist rumbled.

“-And you need to be diplomatic,” Jorleif finished, rolling his eyes. “Egil, your natural sense of justice does you credit and you’ve won over the Argonians, but you can’t just trample on your nobles. They might decide to unseat you and put another on the Throne of Ysgramor.”

“Who? Torsten and Hjalti Swiftrunner’s supported me, Kjeld of Kynesgrove has given me allegiance, and Darkwater Crossing’s sent their summer tithe of ore.” Egil raked a hand through his dark tousled hair. He’d gone from youth to man after discovering his mother’s sins. “The other viable option is Bjarni. The last _I_ heard, the Thanes and franklins were in hysterics because of his associations with the Dunmer.”

“No Jarl is truly secure,” Jorleif said softly. “I’m just saying don’t put Torbjorn in a corner. He has a lot of coin and influence still.”

Egil paused and then nodded. “Fine. Handle him. But all naval matters will now be placed in Torsten’s hands.”

“He’ll like that,” Jorleif agreed. The man bowed and took himself off.

“Shahvee will speak to the Argonians and the ice-fishers,” she promised. “Torsten is a fair man who knows his sea-business.”

“Empire won’t be expecting that,” Galmar said with a grin.

“Zenithar disapproves of thievery and the East Empire Trade Company’s been as bad as the Shatter-Shields in Blackmarsh,” Shahvee said mildly. “If Tullius wins, we Argonians of Windhelm will pay for it as we’ve helped you. It’s in our interest for you to win.”

Egil smiled wearily. “I have no intention of letting Tullius win. I just need to clean out my own house first, or the victory we’d achieve wouldn’t be worth having.”

Suvaris Atheron cooperated with Egil – no doubt because Torbjorn didn’t pay enough to make her defy him – and Torsten led twenty Nords from the ice-fisher clans and ten Argonians commanded by Scouts-Many-Marshes to the Pale to question Stig and the Blood Horkers. On their return, the Stormcloaks’ new admiral revealed a notorious battlemage named Haldyn had been hired by Torbjorn to command the new fleet, concealing them with sea mists at Japhet’s Folly. Egil allowed himself a single curse and then set the next plan into motion.

Twenty ships sailed in the pirate fleet and ten of them were on the water at any time. From the Pale to the border between Eastmarch and Morrowind, Torsten’s marines patrolled, using Haldyn’s own sea mists against him. Each ship was captured, the crew paralysed with low-level paralytic toxins until they could be bound in their own hold, and sailed back to Windhelm or the Pale. It went wrong three times, a few Nords and two Argonians dying in battle and the ships burning, but soon enough thirteen of the twenty were neutralised.

Egil insisted on leading the final assault on Japhet’s Folly and so Shahvee accompanied him, because someone who was sensible needed to be around. Muffled oars, blackened hulls and grey-white sails shielded the ships from Haldyn but there was no way they could pierce the sea mists to safely attack the beach.

“Shahvee will take Swims-In-Shadow and Helga Hard-Heart to kill Haldyn and as many of his men as can be managed,” she told Egil. “Shadow should have been a Shadowscale and Helga’s good at killing people quietly. There is no honour in this but…”

“Save the honour for those who deserve it, lass,” Galmar said gruffly. He’d decided she was almost as good as a Nord. Or maybe she was a Nord soul trapped in an Argonian body. Nords were odd like that.

Egil clearly wanted to argue but he knew she was too good at sneaking to be caught. “Be careful,” was all he said, his voice gruff with emotion.

“I will,” she promised.

It turned out Helga’s odd bow had a Muffle enchantment on it and that’s why her shots were silent. They crept through the encampment on the beach at night, as the guards were few because the pirates were secure in their stronghold, and then found a hidden entrance. Between Shadow’s poisoned harpoon and Helga’s bow, no pirate who met them lived, and Shahvee ruthlessly slit the throats of those who slept. Egil wouldn’t approve but he was also realistic enough to understand these people would have done the same to him.

Helga crippled Haldyn with arrows to the knees and then drew her hand-axe to behand him. “You’ll answer for your crimes,” she said tightly. “Jarl Egil will want to put you on trial.”

“Egil? I have a privateer’s commission from Ulfric Stormcloak himself!” screamed the battlemage. His hands spurted with fire but Shadow loaded their blowpipe with a magicka poison dart and took care of that problem. They really should be sent to Veezara for training.

The sea mists had cleared and Torsten’s sailors disembarked, making sure of any pirate Helga, Shadow and Shahvee had missed. The loot they’d accumulated was considerable and every marine got a share. Shadow goggled at their new leather armour and steel-headed javelins, Helga took her share in arrows of elf-metal, glass and even ebony, and Shahvee found herself in possession of an ebony dagger enchanted with a health-drain power. She could sell it and feed the Assemblage for a week!

Egil gave the dead funeral rites, using his sun magic to send them on, and most of the ships were salvaged. Japhet’s Folly was stripped bare of everything but the stone and the cargo loaded into the ships. They even dismantled the rough huts on the beach for lumber and killed the horkers for extra meat, fat, bone and hide.

Shahvee leaned against the boat as it sailed back to Windhelm, sighing. She didn’t really enjoy murdering people but the alternative would have been worse.

“I’m sorry,” Egil apologised as he joined her. “There was nothing of this in honour. You should be cooking salmon cakes and venerating Zenithar, not cutting pirate throats.”

“Shahvee agreed to do it. More people would have died if I didn’t.” But she allowed herself another regretful sigh. “If I’d been able to find Veezara the Shadowscale, it would have been his job to help you. That’s what they’re born for.”

“Seeing this and allowing it… I wonder if it’s how my mother started. Shieldmaidens are trained to be pragmatic where other Nord warriors can’t be,” he said heavily. “I know the cost/benefit ratios were better than that of an all-out attack but…”

“You should always regret this sort of thing. It’s when it becomes easy that you become like your parents or Torbjorn,” Shahvee finished. “Some of those pirates probably thought they were doing the right thing by Talos. But they still did terrible things, and if we hadn’t done bad things to them, they would have gone on to do worse.”

“I know.” Egil sighed. “I just wish ruling was simpler. Good versus evil, not ‘sorta-okay to sorta-worse’.”

“Life is complicated. In Bruma, many people were Thieves because it was better. My mother is a fair Guildmaster who provides for many. But we still stole things from other people, even innocent ones.” Shahvee rubbed her snout. “My mother once said that sometimes you couldn’t avoid doing wrong, so it was better to do as little harm as possible instead. Cloistered priests and hermits can be perfect. The rest of us have to live in the world.”

Egil nodded, looking over the water. “I suppose there’s worse rules to follow. But I don’t take the high road, who will?”

Shahvee couldn’t answer that, so she stayed with him in silence until the voyage was over.


	13. You Are Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, corpse desecration, fantastic racism, imprisonment, war crimes, religious conflict and child abuse/child abandonment. I’m sorry, Fasendil. :(

“There’s two Dragonborn, one of whom is you and the other our sister that you managed to kidnap from Bruma but lost in Riften because she probably ran away to join the Thieves’ Guild, and you’ve already killed about eight dragons, visited High Hrothgar, and come bearing the heads of two Imperial Legates that ran secret camps in the Old Holds. Was there anything I missed?”

Egil loved his brother, he really did, and there was a certain amount of relief in knowing that the prophesised hero of legend (one of them) was on the Stormcloak side. But Bjarni was demonstrating his massive pain-in-the-cloaca tendencies by finally deigning to return after eight weeks of absence without a word on where he was, what he was doing and who he was killing. Ralof, at least, had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed about the entire situation.

Bjarni pursed his lips. “You know Mother sponsored bandits, right?”

“And necromancers. Not to be outdone, Father supported pirates,” Egil informed him. “We need to deal with the corruption in our own ranks before we have the moral authority to throw the Empire out.”

Ralof folded his arms. The man was exhausted and unwashed, something flickering in his blue eyes. Egil could only assume being responsible for Bjarni had run him into the ground. “I’ve lied, stolen and murdered for the cause, Egil. Will you begin with me?”

“There’s a difference between ordinary covert operations and allowing pirates, bandits and necromancers to prey on our people,” Egil assured him with a sigh. “I’d prefer everything be as honourable and decent as possible, but I also understand that sometimes you need to do a bad thing to stop something worse.”

“The Butcher?” Ralof asked. “I wanted to look into that but Sigdrifa told me I had more important things to do.”

Egil covered his face with his hands. “Mother had the idea of lich officers commanding draugr troops as sword-fodder. We stopped Calixto Corrium but Lu’ah al-Skaven’s operating out of Anvilsund and we have no one to stop her coven. He specialised in solitary liches – _she_ wants to use undead to kill all the Thalmor, I hear.”

“Redguard, female? Ye gods, I remember her. Ulfric told her to leave. I guess Sigdrifa… Well.” Ralof was shaking his head in disgust. “She’d have made us worse than Bruma if unchecked. She makes your sister look like… well, you.”

Egil sat back in his seat and groaned, lowering his hands. “Shahvee knew her in Bruma. Tongue like a knife and a very nasty temper but fundamentally a decent woman.”

“Decent? She ran away from her duties as Dragonborn and Ralof let her go!” Bjarni exclaimed in disbelief.

“I said to give her some space. The Bruma Guild’s more benevolent than the Riften one, so Calli’s likely in for a rude awakening with Mercer’s lot,” the hearthman said with a shrug. “Or she’ll gut the bastard and feed him to a passing dragon. She fought in at least two of the Bruma rebellions and was fairly pissed with us Stormcloaks for not answering the Blades’ requests for help.”

Egil snorted. “I’m guessing Mother wasn’t keen on having Blades reveal her secrets. Even the most compassionate heart can be hardened if mistreated enough. I think Ralof has the right of it. Give her space.”

“I think having a dragon or two attack Riften will make her more inclined to work with us,” Ralof said soberly. “She isn’t loyal to the Empire, so we can be grateful for small blessings.”

Egil nodded, rubbing his nose. “I’ll ask Shahvee to send a message to her. Since you seem somewhat familiar with her mindset, Ralof, you’re going to be her hearthman. If it threatens her, it dies.”

“She’s not keen on any of us,” Ralof said slowly. “I’d honestly suggest Helga. I know she’s done work for the Guild and even freelanced with the Brotherhood.”

“I’ve given our covert operations over to Helga after her exemplary work at Japhet’s Folly,” Egil told him. “Your sole mission is Calli.”

“If I go anywhere near the Ragged Flagon, Brynjolf will nail my nuts to a wall, and Calli will probably hand him the hammer and nails,” Ralof said dryly. “The Day Master’s a survivor of Karthwasten and has no love for the Stormcloaks. I’m pretty sure he’s been selling information to Rikke over the years.”

“You can be charming when you set your mind to it,” Egil assured him. “Deliver some wergild to him from us. Thieves speak the language of gold and it might buy us some forbearance.”

“Bribery, covert operations and sneakiness,” Bjarni observed. “Who are you and what have you done with Egil?”

“I’ve grown up!” Egil snapped. “I’m not stupid, Bjarni! I understand these things are sometimes necessary. But there are lines I will not cross nor tolerate anyone else in the Stormcloaks crossing. Am I understood?”

Bjarni stepped back. “Talos, what’s gotten into you?”

Egil inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “I’ve spent the past eight weeks uncovering the depths of our mother’s depravity, mixing her ashes with lye and salt before burying them in the sea in a blessed box under a blessed cairn of stones, dealing with the necromantic serial killer that was allowed free reign for several months, and ending the pirate scourge our father encouraged because it was cheaper than a proper navy. So pardon me for being a little pissy!”

“Enough, both of you!” Ralof snapped, the familiar edge to the arms master’s voice making them jump. “You are both grieving and under stress. Egil must win a province and reform an army while Bjarni is tasked with saving the world from Alduin. You are brothers who can rely on each other. Do not become enemies because you are bitter and grieving.”

Unsurprisingly, Bjarni burst into tears, the pent-up rage and grief exploding from him as all his emotions were wont to do. Egil stood up and went around to his brother to embrace him. His tears had been shed a long time ago, though the ache of losing both his parents and the image of him he’d held over the years would linger.

“You are brothers,” Ralof repeated. “And the world’s fate lies in your hands. I will leave you to each other. Here’s to hoping your sister doesn’t stab me when she sees me next.”


	14. A Useful Asset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration with mentions of criminal acts, incompatible mixed-orientation marriage and kidnapping.

The Redguard was shorter than him and at least twenty years older, but the bladed spear in his hands swung faster than even a warhammer in Ralof’s, the tip tearing the blue-grey wrap that covered his quilted leather gambeson. “What the fuck?” the hearthman yelled as he scrambled back. “I’m not your enemy!”

“You’re the one who kidnapped Calli, right?” the Redguard asked dangerously. His armour was skin-tight red-and-black leather, showing a body far too athletic for a man with iron-grey hair, and the bright blue eyes promised death.

“For fuck’s sake, yes! I was…” Ralof swallowed the words he was following orders and decided to put the blame primarily on Bjarni. The boy had gotten him into this! “I was under the impression she needed rescuing from the Empire because that’s what her brother Bjarni, who’s one of two Dragonborn, believed.”

The bladed spear swung dangerously close and Ralof bolted for the nearest exit. He didn’t intend to die at the hands of some madman.

Then the red-and-black armour clicked. Shit. This Redguard was Dark Brotherhood.

Calli went and performed the Black Sacrament.

He got to the door and another Redguard, this one lither and younger, popped up from the shadows with a shining silver-and-gold slightly curved blade in his hands. “Is this the one, Dad?” he asked the man with the bladed spear.

“One of them,” confirmed the Redguard. “The other one’s an idiot spawn of the Stormsword.”

“Bjarni thought Calli was in trouble, Talos dammit!” snapped Ralof. “His intentions were good!”

“What he has done,” grated the older Redguard, “Is put Calli on Mede’s kill list. While she lived in Bruma, that old bastard could console himself that she lived in squalor and despair. Now she’s in Skyrim, a Dragonborn, and everything Mede fears has come to pass.”

Ralof’s breaths were coming in harsh pants. There was no way he could escape either Redguard. “Egil… sent… me… to… protect… her. He knew Bjarni… did… a stupid… thing.”

“So one of the Storm-Spawn has half a brain,” observed the younger Redguard.

“Neither of them are stupid!”

The older Redguard examined the edge of his bladed spear with a quick professional gaze. “I don’t give a damn about intentions. You’ve given Calli a fright, put her into unnecessary danger and made my life a lot more difficult. Give me one reason why we shouldn’t hunt you down for sport and consign your soul to the Void.”

“I don’t think the Thieves would be pleased if you butcher me on their doorstep,” Ralof said hastily, inching to the side.

“Are you kidding me? Brynjolf might buy me a drink if we treat him to the execution of a Stormcloak,” the older Redguard said in a pleasant tone.

“So your job is to protect Calli?” asked the younger Redguard, rolling his eyes at his father.

“That’s the job Egil gave me.” Ralof managed a shaky grin. “That’s assuming she doesn’t plan to stab me herself.”

“The Penitus Oculatus are already making enquiries, according to our Bruma contacts,” the younger Redguard continued. “Corvus wasn’t pleased at losing their best alchemist and there’s a lot of resentment of the Stormcloaks in Bruma. We’ve been offered five thousand septims for your head and that of Bjarni Ulfricsson.”

“Bjarni’s Dragonborn! If you kill him, that means Calli has to face Alduin.” Now he wasn’t being run into the ground, his brain was working again, putting two and two together. The older Redguard had a similar olive-bronze complexion and aquiline profile to Calli, with a gold stain to his bright blue eyes like she had to her blue-green ones. The younger Redguard was more reddish-brown and his eyes were a deep brown. “Do you really want that for your daughter, _Rustem_?”

“I wasn’t going to kill him. I’m perfectly happy for Alduin to choke on a Storm-Spawn.” Rustem’s smile was bright and empty. “But I’m not sure you’re useful.”

“Dad.” His son’s tone was mild. “He might be. Ralof’s one of those septim-a-dozen Nords. With what you’re doing, wouldn’t he come in handy?”

Rustem snorted. “I’m not giving a Stormcloak the chance for glory in killing that prick Mede.”

“’In battle, it is not the poetry of the movement that matters, only that victory is achieved’,” the boy quoted cryptically.

Rustem groaned. “You’re shitting me. Quoting from the Maxims of Satakal?”

“You’re a Son of Satakal. Makes sense to me.”

“You’re going to kill Mede?” Ralof asked.

“No, we’re going to invite him to dinner. Of course we’re going to fucking kill him!” Rustem snapped.

“I’m trying to convince my father you’d be a useful asset for the Dark Brotherhood during these trying times,” the young man said cheerfully. “Asset used to covert operations, personal incentive to kill Mede and protect Calli… ‘Never cast away a sword, even if it was the weapon that slew your father’.”

Rustem groaned. “I’m getting lectured on the tenets of Satakal by an adolescent warrior-monk.”

“’Wisdom comes from many sources’,” quoted the boy.

Despite the situation, Ralof laughed.

Grumbling, Rustem lowered his weapon. “You’ve got two choices, Stormcloak. You join the Dark Brotherhood until Mede’s dead, which will give you access to Calli and an automatic spot on the ‘do not stab’ list with the Guild. Or I can kill you now and dump you in Lake Honrich. I hear the slaughterfish are hungry.”

“That’s only one choice!” Ralof complained.

“Well, I mean you Nords are eager for Sovngarde… But I regret to inform you that any Nord in my way will be killed in such a way as to deny them Sovngarde. Alduin treats the souls of heroes as hors d’oeuvres.” Rustem smiled. “Void’s not so bad in comparison.”

“Fuck.”

“No thanks. I have standards.”

“You fucked Sigdrifa Stormsword.”

Rustem’s son burst out laughing. Ralof decided he liked him.

“That was something neither of us had much of a choice in,” Rustem said, all trace of humour and murder lost in his flat expression. “Each of us couldn’t be rid of the other fast enough.”

Rustem’s son stopped laughing.

“I’ll _assist_ the Dark Brotherhood so long as it doesn’t interfere in my duties to the Stormcloaks,” Ralof promised softly. “As the boy says, we have mutual goals and enemies.”

“I’m Cirroc,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Cirroc. Ralof Storm-Hammer.”

“A sensible Nord. I should note this for the Sword-Saint archives,” Cirroc said dryly.

“Fine,” Rustem grated. “But one fuck up and I’ll kill you.”

“So what else is new in my life?”


	15. Concoctions to Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and criminal acts. I almost feel sorry for Romlyn Dreth and the Goldenglow merc’s but… well. This is Calli and Ingun after all.

“I wish to pledge my life and ply my talents in darker circles. If only my mother would let me, I would make her proud.”

Calli tugged on the enchanted boots Tonilia had given her. “This isn’t a lark, Ingun. These bastards nearly got their hands on Vex, and Vex is a Blades-trained infiltrator. Brynjolf wants an example made of them.”

Maven’s daughter nodded seriously. “I know. I’ve got some concoctions I want to try out.”

“You haven’t approached the Brotherhood?” Calli asked cautiously.

“Astrid declined as she felt it could make business with my mother problematic. My mother says I’ll be more use marrying some fat merchant prince in Cyrodiil.” Ingun sighed. “I envy you your lack of family.”

“I don’t lack family. Most of them are just… problematic,” Calli told her.

“I know all about that. Mother dominates our lives, Hemming’s a vainglorious lickspittle that thinks he’s the finest swordsman alive and Sibbi murdered his fiancée’s brother after she rightfully objected to his adultery!” Ingun burst out in frustration.

“My mother was a traitor, my grandfather was a traitor, my great-grandfather abandoned us and my great-great-grandmother was batshit insane,” Calli noted as she laced up her sleeveless Guild coat. “My father’s an assassin and I have three brothers, one of whom kidnapped me from Bruma.”

Ingun snorted. “If we’re competing in an Arena match of lousy relatives, my mother’s drowned three of her bartenders at the meadery this year.”

“My mother betrayed every oath she ever made and pretended I didn’t exist for twenty-something years because she hated my father.”

“I’m fairly sure my mother’s fucking Mercer Frey.”

“That just goes to show she’s got lousy taste.”

“She’s sending bandits after caravans, selling information to the Thalmor and smuggling weapons to the Stormcloaks.”

“My mother may have sold out the Blades.”

Ingun blinked. “Okay, you might win. But you say ‘was’.”

“She came a cropper at Helgen.” Calli raised her leather hood. “Did you know that Romlyn Dreth wants me to smuggle mead up to Ivarstead?”

“There’s someone who actually wants to buy the stuff? It tastes awful,” Ingun asked in surprise.

“I wouldn’t let your mother know about that.” Calli pursed her lips. “What do you think will be more profitable? Doing it or selling him out.”

“Selling him out,” Ingun said firmly. “You’ll get on Indaryn’s good side. As I said, I have some concoctions I want to try out and you might be able to persuade him into selling a couple kegs of sour mead. I’m sure those idiots at Goldenglow have ordered supplies.”

“Are they fatal? Only Aringoth is to be spared… and that’s if it’s convenient.”

Ingun smiled. “They’ll be very sick at least. I needed that nirnroot, nightshade and deathbell for a reason.”

…

“A Dreth never forgives betrayal!” Romlyn hissed at Calli as she entered the meadery.

“That’s funny, because your ancestor insulted one of mine during the Oblivion Crisis in the Imperial Prison the day Uriel Septim died,” Calli retorted mildly.

Ingun was surprised to see the mer turn a pasty grey and scurry off.

Calli smirked. “My great-great-grandma was a woman of some note.”

Indaryn bustled over, wiping his hands on the apron. “I appreciate that. I knew the scheming little fetcher was selling mead on the side but couldn’t prove it until you told me.”

“Little bastard objected to Guild dues,” Calli observed. “I’m philosophical on the matter myself, but it’s just rude to thumb your nose at the Guild and expect no kind of consequences.”

“Heard you were from the Bruma Guild,” Indaryn observed. “Lady Maven won’t be pleased if you’re dragging Ingun into something.”

Ingun smiled. “Calli’s calling on my technical expertise for the Goldenglow matter. Do you still have those kegs of sour mead?”

“I do.” Indaryn rubbed his hands. “Let me get someone to load them up for you.”

Calli wheeled the handcart boldly up to the front gate, whistling tunelessly, and the mercenary standing guard looked suspicious. “What’s that?” he demanded.

“An apology from the Guild,” Calli called up as Ingun watched from behind a bush. “They’re willing to let bygones be bygones because we all know Maven’s nuttier than a fruitcake, uglier than a horker’s arse and has the charm of a week-dead mudcrab.”

Ingun stifled a laugh. She shouldn’t think it was true but…

“How do we know it’s not poisoned?” the guard asked suspiciously.

“Oh, but it is,” Calli said sarcastically. “If the puking doesn’t get you, the running shits will, and if neither of them work it’ll stop your heart. Do I look like a Dark Sister to you, fuckwit? No. I was able to swipe the kegs because I’m Ingun’s personal assistant. Do you want the mead or not?”

“Don’t try anything funny,” warned the gate guard. “We couldn’t get the albino but we’ll happily kill you instead.”

They took charge of the handcart and Calli wiped her hands on the front of her homespun servant’s dress with a sneer before turning for the main road.

Ingun waited in hiding until she reached the clump of bushes. “Do you think they’ll fall for it?”

“Sellswords like to drink and these dickheads haven’t had alcohol for a few days,” Calli said, crouching behind the bushes to change into her Guild armour. “If there’s any, it’ll be hoity-toity Altmer piss or Valenwood’s more exotic beverages. Even your ma’s lousy mead will be better than that to their unrefined palates.”

It was interesting how Calli switched from street cant to noblewoman’s speech and back again in mid-sentence. Ingun knew she came from good stock that was destroyed in the Bruma Purges and spent most of her life in the slums. She was no fool and Ingun was rather pleased she’d made an alliance of the woman.

Night fell and they entered Goldenglow, Calli creeping around to make sure of all the external guards with a few Frenzy poison darts and quietly casting ice spikes to the eyeball. Inside, everyone was dead or dying, and their daggers took care of the rest.

“Can we secure the loot before you savour the agonies of the dying?” Calli asked with some asperity.

“I’m not savouring,” Ingun protested. “I’m studying!”

Calli rolled her eyes, which Ingun had to concede was fair, and they searched for Aringoth.

He was concealed in a bedroom, pants reeking of fear. “Worthless mercenaries. I didn't think Maven or Mercer would allow me to get away with this, but I had little choice.”

“Oh?” Calli asked. “Brynjolf did give the order to keep you alive… if it’s convenient. Cleaning up and that. So hand over the key and you can leave.”

“I can't. If I do, I may as well cut my own throat,” he protested.

Calli shrugged. “I might be under orders to try and keep you alive, but Ingun’s got a few poisons she wants to test out. Would you prefer heart failure or a stroke?”

The mer shuddered. “I…”

“Yes?” Calli’s tone got sharper.

“Fine. Take it! Once the new owner finds out I gave in, I'm as good as dead anyway!” He threw the brass key at the Thief, who caught it deftly.

“New owner?” Ingun asked. Her mother was going to pitch a fit if she had to negotiate honey supplies with someone else.

“I've already said too much. I gave you what you came here for, now go. Leave me in peace,” Aringoth said sulkily.

“You’ve got a count of ten to be gone,” Calli said flatly. “One… two…”

He bolted out on three and a few seconds later, they heard a crash and a thud. When they’d finished looting the place, they found out that he’d tripped over a dead mercenary near the stairs and broken his neck.

“Oops,” Calli said.

Ingun, overjoyed she’d finally done something worthy of her talents, laughed gleefully.

“I better introduce you to my dad,” Calli said as they went downstairs. “Because you might just decide to go freelance and that could be, ah, awkward.”

“Your dad?”

“He’s the guy running the… uh… alternative Brotherhood Sanctuary in Dawnstar.”

“Dawnstar? It’s so cold up there!” Ingun complained.

“It’s the only other relatively intact Sanctuary in Skyrim,” Calli explained. “Astrid’s too scared of your ma now Sigdrifa’s dead but Rustem couldn’t give two shits. He’d enjoy spiking the Empire’s wheel by ruining your mother… if it gets that far.”

“I want my mother to be proud of me!” Ingun protested.

“So marry the fat old merchant with no kids, spike his drink with something and become sole inheritor of his fortune,” she suggested pragmatically. “You’re then independently wealthy and you can give Maven one finger and a box of horker shit.”

“You don’t like my mother,” Ingun noted.

“She wouldn’t know how to keep a bargain if the gods themselves wrote it in holy fire on the stone before her feet. She’s selling out to the Thalmor, extorting coin from damn-near everyone from the beggars to the Jarl in Riften and betraying everyone she works with. I’m guessing the only reason she hasn’t been poisoned yet is because no one can afford Astrid’s fee.”

“Mother just pays Astrid to kill the petitioner instead,” Ingun admitted glumly.

The independently wealthy route had a certain ring to it, except that Ingun wasn’t sure she could make nice to some fat old merchant long enough to do the deed. But she had a couple inconvenient brothers…

Ingun had plenty to ponder on the way home. She should see if any of Calli’s enemies needed poisoning. It would be a suitable gift for her practical advice.


	16. The Preserve of Priests and Princes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

Nords traditionally purged their grief through weeping, drinking and violence. Bjarni had done the first, eschewed the second because it wasn’t appropriate, and embarked on the third to do something practical until it was time to go to Morthal and retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. There were bandits, necromancers, wild beasts and dragons aplenty to vent his spleen on and while his new second Stenvar wasn’t a patch on Ralof, the man was competent and steady. The only place he was forbidden from venturing to was Anvilsund, and that was because Egil feared it would take a squad to clear that place out.

Egil had a point of cleaning out their own house before recommencing the liberation of Skyrim. It removed any threat that could drain the Old Holds’ resources, provided much needed arms and armour for all the newbloods pouring in, made trade and travel safer within Stormcloak territory, and rebuilt the rebels’ reputation with the moderates. His brother was proving to be a more competent and flexible Jarl than Bjarni feared he could have been. There was hope for everyone if Egil could achieve that.

It took three weeks to completely purge Eastmarch of any external threats that he’d missed on his first dragon and Imperial hunting expedition, and a week to sort out Winterhold and mollify Korir’s ego by returning the Helm of Winterhold and accepting the position as Thane in his court. That diplomatic immunity was going to be handy when Bjarni had to cross over into Whiterun, because Balgruuf was still stubbornly clinging to his neutrality. Bjarni would have thought knowing the Dragonborn was on the Stormcloaks’ side would have persuaded the Jarl otherwise.

Now he was in Dawnstar, listening to Skald abuse his servant and pondering the mystery of the nightmares plaguing the port town. The Pale was a critical border and port Hold in the hands of an incompetent idiot; sadly, the most respected alternative for the Sea Throne was an Imperial loyalist. Egil really needed to consider another candidate because someone was going to feed Skald to a passing dragon sooner or later.

After several minutes of making the appropriate noises to satisfy Skald’s ego, Bjarni excused himself and Stenvar to visit the Windpeak. The local churls and franklins would know the source of the nightmares better than that senile old coot back in the White Hall.

A Priest of Mara, a weathered Dunmer in early middle age who gave his name as Erandur, was consoling a distraught miner in the common room. “These nightmares will soon end,” he promised.

“He seems awfully certain of that,” Stenvar muttered.

“Mara probably sent him here,” Bjarni observed.

“That she did,” Erandur confirmed as he approached them. “I’m guessing you’d be one of the Dragonborn.”

“Mara’s been carrying tales,” Bjarni told him, offering his hand, which the priest shook.

Erandur chuckled. “Not exactly. One Dragonborn walks the path of light and the other the path of shadows. Both are necessary to bring together unlikely allies.”

The idea that Calli might be walking a preordained path was… actually pretty funny, given her dislike of having her choices taken from her. Bjarni knew better than to laugh, because it would confuse Erandur. “Well, I’m here to help deal with any problems.”

The problem, it seemed, was the Daedric Prince Vaermina – of whom Erandur was far too knowledgeable to be a simple cleric.

“Let me guess,” Bjarni said as they headed towards Nightcaller Temple. “You were part of this cult.”

“I… yes.” Erandur sighed. “I fled them when I had the chance and now I’ve come to atone for my mistakes. Will you still help me?”

“Of course we will,” Bjarni promised, though Stenvar didn’t look pleased.

There were already two people up at Nightcaller Temple, a Redguard with a bladed spear and a Cyrod in jester’s garb, killing a trio of frostbite spiders. “Harvest the venom,” advised the Redguard. “It makes a good blood-freezing poison.”

Erandur’s mouth tightened. “Dark Brotherhood.”

“Priest of Mara,” greeted the Redguard cheerfully. “Here to exorcise the place?”

“We are,” Erandur said shortly.

“Good. I don’t appreciate nightmares and Cicero’s cracked enough.” There was nothing friendly in the smile the assassin gave Bjarni and Stenvar. “I’m guessing you’re Bjarni Ulfricsson.”

“I am,” Bjarni answered. “Don’t push your luck, assassin. The more swords, the better in this, but…”

“Blah, blah, blah.” The Redguard yawned. “I endured lectures from your mother for ten years and the only reason I’m not shoving your axe down your throat is because I’d rather see you face Alduin than my daughter. If you ever get the bright idea of kidnapping her again – or laying a hand on any other of my relatives excepting that prick Irkand – you can count your days of life after killing Alduin on one hand. Are we clear?”

“You must be Rustem,” Bjarni said flatly.

“I am,” Calli’s father said cheerfully.

“If you come anywhere near my brother or the Stormcloak high command, I’ll hang your head from a wall,” Bjarni promised darkly.

“Boy, I’ve received direr threats from bigger men than you,” Rustem said with a bright empty smile. “For now, my goals and those of the Stormcloaks somewhat align. We all want the Empire kicked out of Skyrim. But…”

“Bury the grudge with Sigdrifa and be done with it,” Erandur interrupted bluntly. “Now, shall we deal with Vaermina or shall you indulge in petty insults and threats for the rest of the day?”

First, there was the barrier between them and the Skull of Corruption, the source of the nightmares. Then there were the besepelled Orcs and Vaermina cultists awakening from the Miasma. Then there was the Dreamstride and the necessity of someone who was unaligned drinking it. That fun part fell to Stenvar, because Erandur couldn’t be certain a Dragonborn counted as unaligned. More Orcs and cultists once the barrier was done. Then, finally, the two remaining high priests and the Skull of Corruption.

The Nord and Dunmer didn’t even get the chance to speak because Cicero the jester fell on them with his twin daggers, singing, “If the priestlings give Cicero bad dreams, he will repay them by making them scream.”

Cicero, as Rustem noted, was cracked.

Erandur started the ritual to banish the Skull of Corruption back to Quagmire, Vaermina’s realm, when the Daedric Prince herself began to tempt all of them. Bjarni wasn’t minded to take the orders of a disembodied voice who fed off nightmares and gave little tangible in return. Rustem and Cicero were too loyal to Sithis. But Stenvar…

The mercenary surged forth, weapon in hand, and was met at the base of the stairs by Rustem. It wasn’t even a battle as the Redguard simply stepped around the charging sellsword and with a single swipe of his bladed spear cut Stenvar in two. Bjarni realised his weapon was made from dragonbone and had a similar band of wrapped cords to the Sword of the Septims in the Temple of Talos in Windhelm.

“Tacky, very tacky, to kill someone who’s hired you,” Rustem lectured the dying mercenary.

An assassin lecturing someone on professional etiquette was certainly a new experience for Bjarni.

The Skull was banished and an exhausted Erandur was helped up by Rustem. “If you want to do something useful, please relieve Maramal at the Benevolence of Mara in Riften before someone stabs him,” advised the assassin.

Erandur shook his head. “I’m going to Windhelm. _Someone_ needs to temper the harshness of Stendarr’s justice with a little compassion.”

“Egil’s not that bad!” Bjarni protested.

“He’s better than your parents,” Erandur agreed ruefully. “But he could be kinder.”

Rustem pressed a purse of coin into the priest’s hands. “Take the carriage.”

“Charity from an assassin?” Bjarni asked in disbelief.

“There’s more to me or to Calli than you might think,” Rustem said softly. “Decency isn’t just the preserve of priests and princes. Remember that, Dragonborn, in the days to come.”


	17. A Haven of Prejudice and Narrow Thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, imprisonment, criminal acts and religious conflict.

Autumn was well and truly alive in Eastmarch and as she had for the three years she’d lived on the docks, Shahvee was salting the last of the final catch in preparation for winter. Every rafter and rack in the Assemblage was strung with slaughterfish, salmon and the dozen nameless varieties that lurked in the Sea of Ghosts’ depths, salted and smoked and dried, while crocks of clams in brine, pickled mudcrab meat, barnacles and fish roe were stacked to the roof. They even had a smokehouse full of horker meat and sausages, baskets full of the double-baked flatbread Nords ate in winter, copious jars of jazbay grapes and snowberries in honey, and the pickled shredded cabbage that was popular in the Old Holds. Freed from sixteen-hour days for a handful of septims thanks to Egil, they’d been able to stockpile enough food for twice the number of Argonians with a few weeks until true winter to spare.

“This can’t be legal!” protested the foreman of the East Empire Trade Company’s office as his files were removed from the dilapidated warehouse. Torbjorn Shatter-Shield’s pirates had ruined their eastbound trade and Egil’s sanctions on known Imperial sympathisers had done the rest. Shahvee felt a little sorry for him, but not much. Even when the Empire ruled here, they hadn’t done much for the Argonians.

“You’ll be given enough coin to return to Imperial territory,” promised Jorleif, who’d been Ulfric’s right-hand man and now served as Brunwulf Free-Winter’s assistant. The Nord seemed to have taken it fairly well, all things considering. “Unless you’d like to work for Shatter-Shield Shipping?”

“I’d sooner drink poison,” the foreman declared. “When the Legion comes a-calling, I’ll ask for your head to be placed on a pike next to the Storm-Spawn’s!”

Shahvee’s faint sympathy vanished and her facial scales tightened. But she chose not to say anything.

He was bustled off to the ferryman, who plied his trade between Windhelm and Solitude on a regular basis, and Jorleif sighed in aggravation. “Like his kind haven’t gouged honest Nord traders for years!”

For the sake of tact and diplomacy, Shahvee refrained from pointing out the Nords had done the same to the Argonians and the Dunmer.

“What will happen to the warehouse?” she asked instead. “It still seems sound enough.”

“Probably go up for sale. Treasury’s still lean after years of neglect.” Jorleif sighed. “It made sense at the time to focus on the soldiers instead of the city but now, we’re paying twice the cost thanks to neglect.”

“Egil is very wise to focus on shoring up his foundations,” Shahvee told him. “You can’t outfit an army if there’s no farmers and traders and crafters to supply them.”

“Oh, aye. We’ve neglected most of the Aedra and now we’re paying for it.” The Nord sighed for a third time. “Could you swing up to the Palace? Egil needs reminding he can’t fix everything in a few weeks.”

“I will,” she promised. She hadn’t seen him for a few days thanks to the last fishing expedition of the season. She hoped he understood.

Jorleif nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Shahvee. I wish some folks were as sensible as you are.”

“If Egil stopped preaching the Aedra to the Dunmer, he’d receive a warmer reception from them,” Shahvee pointed out. “Even the Argonians who worship other gods acknowledge the Hist as the source of our people.”

“If the Dunmer worshipped Daedra who weren’t Mephala and Boethiah, I think he’d be a little more tolerant. He’s managed to keep his mouth shut around the envoy from Narzulbur,” Jorleif countered. “We should have asked Bjarni to intervene before we dispatched him to hunt dragons and other problems plaguing the other Old Holds. He’s always gotten along with the Dunmer.”

Shahvee sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Shutting up Rolff would help.”

“We’ve told him to stop but…” Jorleif knuckled his eyes. “He’s technically nobility, so the wergild for punching him in the face is more than a Dunmer or Argonian can afford, and few Stormcloaks are inclined to defend mer from a Nord.”

“He’s going to get killed by a Morag Tong,” Shahvee said bluntly. “The Dunmer have _some_ right to their anger and resentment.”

“I’ll have a word to Bjarni when he returns,” Jorleif groaned. “He likes punching idiots in the face and even Galmar wouldn’t complain.”

Shahvee nodded and finished her work before grabbing a load of dried mudcrab chitin. It was getting to the time of year when Nurelion and his apprentice made cure disease potions and the Assemblage’s stocks were getting low. Skeever ashes and dried mudcrab chitin tasted lousy but it was the most powerful cure possible.

She skirted the edge of the Grey Quarter and emerged near the Snow Gate, which was the main entrance to Windhelm. Predictably, Rolff and some beggar were abusing Suvaris Atheron in front of a dark-haired human in sleeveless leather armour of a nondescript dust-grey. The fact she wasn’t shivering hinted at Nord blood, though she had the skin and nose of a Cyrod, and her face was flat with anger.

“Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy. We got ways of finding out what you really are,” sneered Rolff.

“I thought Windhelm was home to the greatest Nord heroes in Skyrim?” observed the short wiry Nord brunette in a low, husky voice that was vaguely familiar. “Instead I see it’s home to a pack of cowardly racists who need to attack a womer two-on-one because they don’t have the balls to do it alone.”

“Brave of you, muthsera,” Suvaris said. “Brave but stupid.”

“Why should we care about what some filthy dark elf lover thinks?” Rolff retorted.

“Judging by the reek of you I bathe more often than you,” the brunette retorted dryly.

Rolff snarled and swung a fist in her direction, only to have a boot planted on his backside that propelled him into a snowdrift. Shahvee stifled a laugh. If this Nord couldn’t afford the fine, she and Suvaris could probably cover it.

“His brother’s Ulfric’s huscarl,” Suvaris warned.

“And my mother was the Stormsword, so I guess we’re even in rank.” The brunette’s foot caught Rolff in the stomach, making the drunk bend over with a whoosh of expelled air. “Stay _down_ , you daft fool, or the next kick goes to your balls to save the world from your potential offspring.”

Rolff did not, in fact, stay down and Calli’s boot connected with his groin hard enough to produce a weak squeak and the foetal position. She’d added muscle to her scrawny frame since Shahvee had last seen her in Bruma.

“You've come to the wrong city,” Suvaris noted. “Windhelm's a haven of prejudice and narrow thinking, unworthy of one such as you.”

“I hear Egil’s not as bad as Ulfric and Sigdrifa, which I imagine is like saying warts are preferable to the clap or the pox,” Calli said dryly.

“He’s not that bad!” Shahvee protested. “Bjarni’s more akin to the warts than Egil!”

“On that, we agree.” Calli strode over, stepping over the squeaking Rolff, and gave her a big hug. “How have you been? I was expecting to find you in Riften!”

“Riften was too close to temptation,” Shahvee admitted. “Umm… not that I’m…”

“I had few options thanks to my idiot little brother,” Calli said, rolling her eyes. “The Guild’s gone to shit in Skyrim and since my other option is to go chase dragons, I’ll show them what a real Thief’s supposed to be like. I’m doing surprisingly well now I don’t have a pair of idiots following me around.”

“Egil sent Ralof to help you,” Shahvee said slowly.

“Ralof’s been diverted to a more practical use of his talents,” Calli said dryly. “Need some help with that chitin? I’ve got to see someone in the marketplace anyway.”

“Please. Nurelion’s the local alchemist and we’re running low on cures,” Shahvee said gratefully.

“Nurelion Direnni? _The_ Nurelion Direnni? I need to get his autograph.” Calli took half the load from Shahvee.

Unsurprisingly, it was Niranye she had to see, and it seemed a group of Altmer thieves had set up shop in Eastmarch and were robbing the dead – a gross infraction of Guild rules. Robbing tombs was one thing, but pillaging the newly dead in the Temples of Arkay quite another. Calli’s expression was grim as the womer told her to find them at Uttering Hills Cave near Angi’s Mill.

“Stop by the Palace of the Kings to speak to Brunwulf,” Shahvee advised as they left the marketplace having spoken to Nurelion. “You could collect an official bounty.”

Calli nodded. “I suppose I should visit Egil too.”

“He’s a good man, really,” Shahvee assured her. “He personally dug up Sigdrifa’s body, turned it into ashes, and got it buried where she couldn’t haunt anyone as a sea-ghost after we found out she’d supported a necromantic serial killer.”

Calli choked. “She did _what_?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Shahvee said sincerely. “But Egil’s done a lot for the Argonians.”

Her mother’s friend looked at her with a shrewd wise gaze. “You care for him.”

“We’re friends,” she said softly. “I wish… well. It can’t be otherwise. He needs to marry a Nord so she can have Nord kids to inherit the Throne of Ysgramor and I don’t think I’d make a very good mistress. So it’s just friends.”

She decided to change the subject before Calli pressed the issue. “Do you know he can swear in Khajiit?”

“Let me guess,” Calli said dryly, “He mispronounced ‘sload-fucker’.”

Shahvee laughed as they walked to the Palace. She hoped Egil and Calli could be friends.


	18. A Business Arrangement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, criminal acts and mentions of imprisonment, child abuse, child abandonment, religious conflict, war crimes and genocide.

“My Jarl,” Brunwulf hailed with a raised hand as Egil exited the war room, “There’s someone you need to speak to.”

His eyes went first to Shahvee, who was sleeker and even more brightly scaled than she had been several weeks ago, and then to the short, scrawny brunette whose sleeveless dust-grey leathers had to be some variation of Thieves Guild armour. Apart from the olive-bronze complexion and Cyrod beak of a nose, her features were a softer replica of his and Bjarni’s, her blue-green eyes like seawater over sand. Her pupils flashed red-green in the firelight, as had Bjarni’s, and there was the same sense of coiled power. But she lacked the emotional intensity their brother possessed, instead having the sort of quiet confidence that likely served a Thief well.

Egil inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He wasn’t sure he was ready for this meeting but it was due nonetheless. “Burglary hours are between dusk and dawn, with midnight to dawn being the most sporting of hours. Otherwise, audiences are twice a week from twelve to three in the afternoon.”

“I’ll schedule both those times into my calendar,” Calli answered dryly. “We have a mutual problem in Uttering Hills Cave regarding the graverobbers who were trying to force Niranye to sell their ill-gotten gains. Shahvee told me it would be better to collect a bounty from Brunwulf as to avoid, ah, complications.”

“The Guild has laws against robbing the newly interred dead,” the Argonian explained quietly. “Niranye is a refugee from Alinor and Linwe, the leader of the Summerset Shadows, is threatening to sell her location to Elenwen if she doesn’t cooperate.”

Egil pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sister, I… well, can’t fault you for being resentful of Bjarni’s, ah… enthusiasm. But what in Stendarr’s name does the Guild provide that the Stormcloaks can’t? I have tracings of every accessible Word Wall in the Old Holds and while Bjarni’s killed all the dragons, I’m sure we can find a few others…”

“Anonymity,” Calli said simply. “I was left alone by the Penitus Oculatus on the understanding that once Mede shuffled off the mortal coil, the interdict would be amended to allow me a modest amount of property. If the situation had been truly dire, I could have prevailed on my father to extract me to Elinhir, where I had enough contacts to set myself in comfortable style. It’s very easy to disappear in Riften and to be frank, I’ve always had to rely on quick feet, quicker fingers and even quicker wits. In Bruma, at least, the Guild was responsible for the care and employ of the poor.”

“I… see.” Keeper Carcette had always said it was easy to be just and honourable when one had the basic needs of life met. He thought he understood now. And everyone knew Rustem Aurelius was associated with the Hammerfell chapter of the Dark Brotherhood.

“No, you don’t,” Calli said. “But you haven’t thundered out a sermon or blathered on about Nord honour, so thank you.”

“Would you listen?”

“Not particularly,” she admitted with a shrug. “I might teach you a few words Bjarni doesn’t know though.”

“I know quite enough curses, thank you,” Egil assured her.

“Don’t worry, I mispronounce ‘sload-fucker’ too,” she said with a grin.

He was startled into a laugh.

“Seriously though, I come across as much information in my line as work as you do in yours,” Calli continued. “I’m willing to trade information for information. Even you must admit intelligence is a crucial part of a military victory.”

“You’re willing to help the Stormcloaks?” Brunwulf asked urgently.

“No. I’m willing to sell information to you,” Calli corrected. “You’ve got Bjarni. I’d prefer to remain far under Imperial notice, given what I know of their internal politics. When this is all over, I intend to change my name and face and go far, far away. Stros M’kai sounds nice.”

Egil inhaled deeply again. A business relationship. It was more civil than he expected. “How’s Ralof doing? I sent him-“

“I know,” she finished. “That’s part of the information I’ll trade you for those dragon Words. He’s been borrowed for a greater cause that will serve the Stormcloaks, if you’ve the competency to capitalise on it.”

“Done.” He hoped he hadn’t sent the hearthman to his demise.

They went up to Egil’s private office, away from prying eyes, and Egil was grateful Shahvee came with him. “The Words,” he said, nodding to the leather-bound folio of charcoal rubbings. “What’s happened to Ralof?”

“He impressed my father,” Calli said quietly. “Managed to survive being hunted by a Blades-trained warrior and a Redguard Sword-Saint in the Ratway, so Dad gave him the choice of joining the Dark Brotherhood until they assassinate Titus Mede or being executed. Ralof’s no fool, so…”

“They’re going to _what_?” Egil yelped.

“The Thalmor ponied up the cash to cover the cost of Motierre hiring the Brotherhood to kill Mede,” Calli answered with a quirk of her lips. “Can you believe that fucking idiot pawned his Elder Council amulet to cover the down payment and put everything down in writing?”

Shahvee groaned. “Never put anything incriminating in writing!”

Egil was startled into another laugh. “That’s an actual rule?”

“It is.” Calli’s gaze was distant. “Most Thieves aren’t idiots. The ones who are generally get ratted out to the guard by the Guild to save us all from incompetency. It may surprise you, but a properly run branch of the Guild relies on a combination of practicality, charity and pragmatism to operate. Don’t steal from the poor and donate generously to them, don’t murder unless you’re defending yourself, cultivate a web of talented individuals that benefit as much from the relationship as you do, don’t break a bargain and don’t betray your allies. The Summerset Shadows have violated at least three of those rules, hence Torsten Cruel-Sea coming to us once it became clear we’re regaining our influence in the Old Holds.”

“In a perfect world, all would be just,” Shahvee said with a sigh. “I was still a Thief when I crossed the border. I intended one big score and then go into honest trade but…”

“Mercer’s breaking our laws,” Calli finished. “Maven’s abusing her power. Thieves have a sense of justice too and that’s where I come in.”

“You aren’t interested in being a hero of legend that would outshine any other Nord before or after?” Egil asked curiously.

“Grand destinies oftentimes involve grand funerals,” Calli said dryly. “There are more pleasant afterlives than being surrounded by a group of drunk Skyrim-born Nords whose main claim to fame is being able to die with a weapon in their hand because they’re too stupid to be sensibly scared of battle.”

Egil closed his eyes. Calli’s cynicism was understandable and he… well, he could imagine her point of view. The Bruma Nords had died bravely and the Stormcloaks let them die. No wonder she chose survival over honour.

“Ralof’s meant to help you, not your father,” he said after opening his eyes.

“The Penitus Oculatus is already searching for me,” Calli said grimly. “Ralof’s an experienced covert operative. He’s doing more good with the Brotherhood than he would be getting kicked around the Ratway by Bryn. Some of Astrid’s people are a little too bloodthirsty for my liking. A good assassin is supposed to minimise the collateral damage, not contribute to it.”

“So I’m… I’m…”

“This is already in motion. There’s going to be a period of instability in the Imperial Holds that will mean defensive capacities will be diminished and/or disorganised.” Calli pursed her lips. “If some of the intelligence I’ve come across is accurate, Tullius and Rikke may very well choose to sacrifice Mede and even Skyrim to protect Akaviria. Even loyalists will have a hard time mourning that old bastard if even half the rumours are true.”

Egil licked his lips nervously. “What rumours?”

Calli’s gaze was grim. “Once he’s dead, the next Emperor might very well be from the Aldmeri Dominion.”

Shahvee gasped in the horror Egil felt. “Skyrim, we must…”

“You’d better do something impressive and then win over the Redguards,” Calli advised. “Oh, and just remember, there’s five thousand wronged Reachfolk who can go toe to toe with the Dominion’s battlemages in the Druadachs.”

She picked up the folio of charcoal rubbings and flipped through them, eyes flashing gold-red-green at every page. “If Bjarni’s the right hand, I’m the left. Believe me, little brother, I’m working to save the world in my own way. Oh, and by the way…”

She put the folio back and gave him a hard stare. “Break Shahvee’s heart and I’ll break your balls.”


	19. A Bigger Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration. Purple Wedding, Dark Brotherhood style.

“Bit of a shame Sigdrifa died,” Gabriella said as they gathered behind the Winking Skeever in Solitude. Even from here they could hear the wedding feast at the Temple of All Gods. “I could have cast Frenzy, thrown Asgeir’s voice yelling some Stormcloak slogans, and let nature take its course.”

“Have you ever known the Stormsword to help anyone?” Ralof drawled. Having his hair cut and beard shaved had been the least of his sacrifices in the past few weeks.

“True. Between you and me, I’m pleased she’s met her maker. The woman was insufferable and never paid well enough to make it endurable.” Gabriella sighed. “My kin in the Grey Quarter says Egil’s almost as bad.”

“The worst he’ll do is expect the dark elves to chip into the war effort and preach at ‘em to worship the Aedra,” Ralof assured her. “So… about this job?”

“The information we received from the Guild was… interesting,” Gabriella said. “Are you sure the source’s reliable?”

“The source is impeccable,” Ralof assured her. “Motierre and Vicci are both in on the plan to make the next Emperor a Dominion vassal.”

“Charming.” Gabriella grimaced. “So Motierre wants the assassination to be public and messy. I have an elven bow and arrows. I will mimic an Alinorian accent and…”

“Let nature take its course,” Ralof said with a laugh. “Veezara and I will be in the crowd as backup.”

“Wonderful!”

It didn’t quite go as planned because Elenwen deigned to attend the wedding with two guards but in the screaming aftermath of the arrow decorating Vittoria’s eye, Ralof jostled the womer in a seeming panic and jabbed her with a needle poisoned with berserker herbs. She began to froth at the mouth and throw Flames everywhere, unleashing more chaos and allowing them to escape the courtyard. Elisif in particular was especially shrill.

They burst out of the hidden exit under Solitude, overlooking the harbour, and split up. Veezara dove into the sea, Gabriella cast Levitation to walk down to the beach and then Waterwalking to cross the harbour, and Ralof…

Ralof ambushed a hapless Legionary patrolling the road leading to the docks and took his armour. Poor bastard was blond and Nord, so from a distance the Stormcloak could pass as him. He should feel more ashamed but this one would have hammered him to a cross if he’d known who Ralof was.

It took an entire night to return to the camp in the Pale which Rustem had set up with Jenassa, one of the Dawnstar assassins. Astrid had agreed to play along as the job was too big for one Sanctuary and Rustem agreed to split the coin, both which Speakers could use. Hence Gabriella and Veezara’s presence.

“It’s done and I think we laid blame at the Thalmor’s feet,” Gabriella announced as she accepted a jar of sujamma from Jenassa. “We won’t know for a few days.”

“I got to jab Elenwen with a berserker poison,” Ralof said happily, beginning to remove the Legion armour. It would be brought with them for later use. “She was frothing at the mouth and flinging fire everywhere.”

“Handy,” Rustem said with a grin. “Warm up. We should return to Dawnstar by sunrise.”

It was a beautiful sunrise and Ralof felt surprisingly happy as he trudged back to Dawnstar with his temporary family.

…

“Elenwen will live, sadly,” Commander Maro reported grimly as they gathered in the war room of Castle Dour. Both he and Tullius were unshaven and rumpled from a long night of investigation with no sleep while Rikke was clad only in a knee-length scarlet tunic that showed off her magnificently muscled torso, arms and legs. Irkand wished she looked a little less chipper though, for his own pride’s sake if nothing else.

“If the Thalmor heard you saying that,” Tullius warned gruffly.

Maro’s expression managed to grow grimmer. “I personally searched Vittoria's house. I knew she was dealing with the Thalmor, but it’s worse than I realised.”

“She’s… she was… an active agent of them?” Irkand asked.

“Yes,” Maro grated.

“The East Empire Trade Company trades in everything and supplies all the Legion needs in the Imperial Holds,” Tullius said, sounding alarmed. “I don’t like the look of this.”

“Thankfully, that leak’s been solved. Ortho Endarius reported back from Windhelm. Egil Ulfricsson has expropriated all Company holdings in the Old Holds, has gained the allegiance of the Argonians – and started a possible romance with an Argonian woman – and is working hard to purge the corrupt elements of his parents.” Maro sighed regretfully. “What we could have made of that boy.”

“Put Ortho in charge of the Company assets here. As you said, he’s honest,” Irkand agreed, reaching for a cup of wine. He was getting too old for early morning conferences on no sleep. “We all know Ulfric was a Thalmor asset, uncooperative or not. We can, I think, trust his sons aren’t.”

“They’re just rebels,” Tullius said wearily.

“I know. I can confirm Bjarni’s Dragonborn.” Irkand smiled bitterly. “How ironic that the Blades who longed for a Dragonborn to serve were betrayed by his grandfather.”

“There’s still a couple alive,” Rikke said quietly. “Delphine’s in Whiterun somewhere and Esbern’s hiding out in the Ratway.”

“Good to know about Esbern.” Irkand passed a hand over his face. “The Stormcloaks will receive a boost to morale, moral justification and prestige with the Dragonborn on their side. Balgruuf’s yet unswayed but his Hold is ravaged by dragons. Once Bjarni’s done with clearing out the Old Holds, Whiterun’s the next logical destination. If Balgruuf feels he owes Egil one…”

Maro swore. “My daughter’s in that city!”

“Then send your son to extract her and send them both to Cyrodiil,” Irkand suggested grimly. “Motierre’s dropped off the face of the earth, which means I suspect he’s achieved his goal of contacting the Brotherhood, and the Thalmor are planning something. The two may be connected.”

“Do you think your niece’s disappearance had anything to do with it?” Tullius asked.

“The only connection is that Bjarni kidnapped her,” Irkand informed him with a sigh.

“She’s been seen in Windhelm,” Maro reported suddenly. “Wearing Guild leathers and reportedly trading information with Egil. They’re more civil than we expected.”

“I imagine having a mother like Sigdrifa and a brother like Bjarni would be something to bond over,” Rikke said ruefully. “Irkand, if she’s gone rogue…”

“You could ask me yourself,” said a startlingly familiar voice from the shadows in the darkest corner of the war room.

Calli emerged, clad in sleeveless dust-grey leathers, more muscular than she’d been the last time Irkand saw her. Her black hair had been cut at the chin and her blue-green gaze had red-green points where her pupils should be.

“Bjarni isn’t the only Dragonborn, you see,” she said with a crooked smile, “And the Thalmor endgame may be bigger than we all think.”


	20. The Last Septim Dragonborn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, criminal acts, war crimes, religious conflict, child abandonment and imprisonment.

“Aurelia Callaina.” Unsurprisingly, it was Commander Maro, the veteran courtier, who recovered his aplomb first. “We’ve been hearing some mixed news about you recently.”

“Spare me the minced words,” Calli said bluntly. “Ulfric taught his sons the dragonish language and Bjarni managed to collect all the accessible Words in the Old Holds, so I traded information to Egil for them. There might be some hope for him yet.”

“What sort of information?” Tullius demanded.

“What I’m about to tell you,” she said calmly. “If you haven’t noticed – or paid attention to anything Rikke said – we’re staring the biggest threat to the world since the Oblivion Crisis in the face. Alduin World-Eater has returned and let me assure you – he comes by his name honestly.”

“You’re certain?” Irkand asked softly.

“Given I saw the big black bastard raising a dragon at Kynesgrove myself, I’d say so,” Calli answered dryly. “I suspect Akatosh brought forth two Dragonborn because Bjarni’s running around waving his axe and screaming his head off, draconically speaking, so someone with a bit more sense and subtlety is required.”

“Will you help us even up the odds?” Maro asked.

“Look, I’m not much of a Nord, but I draw the line at kinslaying,” Calli told him. “I need to be able to operate in both sides of Skyrim for any number of reasons, personal, financial and prophetic, so anything relating to the Thalmor or the dragons will be shared equally.”

Rikke sighed. “I suppose it’s something.”

Tullius grunted sourly. “That doesn’t help us a lot. You’re an Imperial citizen-“

“-Who, thanks to the paranoia of our glorious fucking idiot of an Emperor, has no legal capacity to live in more than idle squalor,” Calli finished flatly. “I could unsheathe the sword I, uh, acquired in Windhelm and have an army of Nords at my back. If Mede’s what the Ruby Throne does to a man, I’ll settle on a life of larceny, thanks.”

She unslung the wretched blade from her back, revealing its dragon-tooth hilt and dragonhide sheath, before tugging it free to reveal the dragonbone katana with its broken tip.

“Fuck,” Maro swore.

“I used several more, but the sentiment’s the same,” Calli assured him as she sheathed the weapon once more. “ _I don’t want the Ruby Throne._ Does that make all of you feel better?”

“We always intended to retract the interdict when Akaviria came to the throne,” Maro said slowly. “I… don’t blame you for your opinion on my father, but a certain amount of tact may be advisable.”

“Mede’s going to be completely irrelevant in the next few months because Motierre’s gone and hired the Dark Brotherhood at the behest of Ondolemar,” Calli said bluntly. “I just came back from burglarising the Thalmor Embassy. Everyone’s hovering over Elenwen like she’s the Queen of fucking Daggerfall. Before you start anything, read this.”

She tossed the copy of the edict Mede’s signature was scrawled on, red Imperial seal shining in the firelight, to her uncle, who caught it neatly. He read it, only the familiar twitch of his jaw muscles indicating his anger, before handing it to Rikke, who read it and handed it to Tullius, with Maro being the final one to examine the document.

“Egil’s smart enough to spend the next few months clearing out my mother’s trash while Bjarni wins the hearts and minds of the Nord moderates in between killing dragons,” Calli continued. “Both of them have learned from their parents’ mistakes.”

“So when the Emperor dies, they’ll attack?” Rikke asked softly.

“Possibly.” Calli turned away to look at the map-table. “Rebellions aren’t born in a vacuum. The first Bruma Rebellion was an act of desperation and fear driving ambition. The second was to try and retake what was lost. The third was to try and preserve what remained. Arius was nuttier than a fruitcake and absolutely none of the remaining Septims ought to be anywhere _near_ the Ruby Throne, but you’ve got very little justification for the Medes to hold it.”

Tullius barked in gruff laughter. “You don’t have a high opinion of your relatives.”

“I have a basic understanding of my family, including myself,” Calli countered. “Incidentally, Ulfric was provoked into a rage by Elenwen using Frenzy. This civil war is meant to bleed both sides dry long enough for the Thalmor to consolidate their hold over the Elder Council in preparation for Mede’s death. If nothing is done on the Legion side, I’ll have no choice but to share everything I know about the Imperial Holds’ defences with Egil, to end the civil war as soon as possible. He’s got the Stormsword’s tactical capabilities, a charismatic brother who inherited Ulfric’s bombastic leadership style, and the righteousness of Stendarr on his side. There are less capable candidates for a newly independent Skyrim that will stand at the heart of the defence against the Thalmor.”

“Well, that’s candid enough,” Maro said sourly. “I, for one, don’t think my father will die so easily…”

“You’ve got two choices – three if you count not doing anything. Send your children out of Skyrim – because Motierre’s working his way up the line of inheritance – and try to purge Astrid’s people before they can strike. Or realise this rebellion’s got its roots in some valid complaints, address those complaints, and co-opt Talos the Second for your own.” Calli shrugged. “I suppose you could acknowledge Egil as Emperor, though I’m not sure Shahvee would be thrilled as Empress and Akaviria would be even less impressed.”

“A Thief would throw the Brotherhood under the bus?” Irkand asked, eyebrows lifting.

“Astrid’s a pain in the arse who’s too close to Mercer Frey for comfort,” Calli told him. “Egil’s not the only one cleaning house.”

“Where’s your father?” Maro demanded.

“Damned if I know. Or damned if I tell you.” Calli allowed herself a grim smile. “I have several options myself, which includes gutting the heart of Imperial leadership and ending the war that much faster. My concern is the Thalmor, not who’s in charge of the ashes of Skyrim if it comes to that.”

“You are, without a doubt, the most terrifying of the Aurelii and I wish to Akatosh we’d never met,” Maro said bluntly.

Calli smiled. “I’m the Last Septim Dragonborn, Maro. You should be afraid.”


	21. Greater Ambitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“You want me to join the Companions?” Bjarni asked incredulously.

“The dragons are dead or fled in the Old Holds,” Egil said calmly. “The rest of the bandits and other undesirables can be managed by rank-and-file Stormcloaks. We need Balgruuf but since we can’t afford to bribe him, we need to appeal to his sense of honour.”

“And you think me joining the Companions will do that?”

“It can’t hurt.” Egil sighed. “We’re not going to be ready for a renewed offensive for a few months and Calli tells me the Empire’s going to be concerned with other things.”

Bjarni blinked. “She paid you a visit?”

“There were some Altmer renegades robbing graves in Eastmarch and apparently the Guild frowns upon that.” Egil smiled crookedly. “I never thought that the Thieves might have their own laws and customs. I’m not _pleased_ they exist but Shahvee tells me it’s worse without them.”

His brother turned to study the map. “There’s not a lot for you to do at the moment and we need to rebuild our reputation. Having a Dragonborn join the Companions… It can only be to our benefit – and yours.”

Bjarni sighed. “We can’t take Falkreath or Hjaalmarch? If we cut off Balgruuf’s supply lines…”

“I still need to deal with Anvilsund and some more organised warbands in the hinterlands. That will require significant amounts of troops.” Egil tapped a couple flags on the map. “There’s bandits and Word Walls aplenty for you in Whiterun. Balgruuf won’t welcome you as Ulfric’s son, but if you convince the Companions to allow you to become a whelp, he’ll have no choice. We can’t espouse old Nord traditions if we don’t live them, and you can’t find an older Nord tradition than joining the Companions.”

“Trying to get me out of the way?” Bjarni asked jocularly.

Egil didn’t smile. “If you think becoming a Jarl is a more efficient method of expanding our influence, feel free to challenge Skald. Your talents might suit a port city if you’re looking for power and authority. Getting away to kill dragons might be difficult, though, unless you find a suitable Steward.”

“Egil, what the fuck’s going on?”

“Calli told me that an Elder Councillor’s hired the Dark Brotherhood to murder Titus Mede,” Egil said after a long pause. “Shahvee tells me her father’s handling it, and given the Aurelii are very good at killing people, Mede’s death is assured. She’s willing to trade that kind of information for Words. I think she’s more comfortable with a business relationship between us than a familial one.”

He turned back to face Bjarni. “She can operate in the Imperial Holds where we can’t. I suspect she’s going to share any information about dragons with the Legion, because they’ll be able to kill them for her, and with what she suspects the Thalmor are planning…”

Egil sighed. “Calli told me the Thalmor are planning another Great War and are trying to subvert the Elder Council. She’d prefer the heartland _not_ crumble as it’ll give the Dominion a straight route into Tamriel’s centre with the ability to threaten Hammerfell, Skyrim or both. But if it comes to that, she’ll facilitate our invasion of Cyrodiil. Our sister has her eyes on a prize bigger than Skyrim’s freedom.”

“She’s probably playing both sides,” Bjarni said reluctantly.

“Only in that she is playing chess against the Dominion.” Shahvee, a trim little Argonian female with brightly jewelled scales, entered the war room. “What if I told you that the Emperor’s only granddaughter, a girl around your age, is a whelp among the Companions?”

“I thought Akaviria was in a finishing school in High Rock?” Egil said, sounding surprised.

“She’s been trained by Irkand, a known Blade, and Rikke as a Shieldmaiden/Blade hybrid, Calli told me,” Shahvee explained. “She’s in Skyrim to try and understand Nords.”

Bjarni laughed shortly. “I doubt she’s in the Companions under her own name. They don’t play politics.”

“I wish she’d told me that when she made the suggestion,” Egil complained.

_“You’re taking political advice from our sister?”_ Bjarni blurted.

“She laid out some practical options,” Egil said softly. “She’ll probably do the same for the Imperials, because as she sees it, the Thalmor are the only winners in a continued civil war.”

“Would she betray us to the Empire to end it all the quicker?”

“No.” That was Shahvee. “The Elder Council’s been subverted by the Dominion. I think…” The Argonian paused, eyes narrowing. “I think her ultimate goal is either reunite the Old Holds with the Empire with a Nord Emperor or to create a coalition to fight the Dominion.”

Egil’s expression cleared and he began to laugh.

“What?” Bjarni asked, nettled.

“I think, brother mine, she wants you to meet Akaviria,” Egil said. “If you’re both in the Companions…”

“You’re going along with this?” Bjarni demanded.

“At best, we achieve our goals with little bloodshed. Practically speaking, we need the support of at least two other provinces to stand against the Dominion. Hammerfell might be on board once we impress them and High Rock will likely fragment if Skyrim becomes independent. Morrowind isn’t likely to seek war with the Dominion until they’re ready and Cyrodiil has well and truly been demolished by the Thalmor.” Egil’s gaze was keen. “Brother mine, you have the potential to be a new Talos. I think, even if we choose not to rebuild the Empire, we will need to annex Cyrodiil at the very least.”

“Blackmarsh won’t return to the Empire,” Shahvee said. “But if we were to muzzle Morrowind and its damned slavers…”

“Me, Talos?” Bjarni asked in disbelief.

“Well, Calli’s already a Septim and she isn’t interested. She said, and I quote, ‘None of the Aurelii should be trusted with a pot plant, let alone an Empire’. She drew the Sword of the Septims in front of me, Brunwulf and Shahvee.” Egil’s expression was firm. “So you’re joining the Companions. At worst, you learn a few tricks and kill some more dragons. At middling, we have the possibility of taking Akaviria hostage and trading her in return for independence. And at best…”

“At best?”

“We have the possibility of rebuilding Talos’ Empire – only a lot better. He was a greedy dragon, you see.” Egil smiled ruefully. “I’m not even sure I want to be High King, but if the alternative’s Elisif…”

“So you want to be Emperor?”

Egil shook his head. “No. I want you to be.”


	22. Welcome to the Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, imprisonment, torture and corpse desecration. Today I discovered it’s Ansilvund and not Anvilsund, but since I’m lazy it’s staying as the latter.

When Bjarni had left, Egil ran a hand down his face with a sigh. “Becoming Emperor would have occurred to him eventually,” he said without preamble. “Calli admitted dragons are driven to dominion, though she seems content to restrain herself to controlling the Guild.”

“She’ll have more power in the shadows than she would as a Septim Empress,” Shahvee pointed out. “Personal vengeance against the Emperor, the ruination of the Dominion and a rebuilt Thieves’ Guild? She’ll be rolling in coin, free to do as she wishes so long as the laws of the Guild are obeyed, and unburdened by scrutiny. You should thank Talos she’s got some basic human decency, or she’d be everything your mother fancied herself as, only more competent at it.”

Egil gave a short sour laugh. “Thank the Nine for that. We’ve done what we can. Now we need to turn our minds to Anvilsund. Lu’ah al-Skaven must be stopped.”

Shahvee shuddered at the mention of the Redguard necromancer reputedly raising the dead in an ancient Nord tomb. Where Corrium had gone for quality, this woman was going for quantity. “Put a bounty on her head. One clever mercenary could do what a warband can’t.”

Egil stubbornly shook his head. “I’ll be going with them. I’m trained to kill the likes of Lu’ah and her minions.”

“And if something happens to you…”

“…Bjarni can take sole command of the Stormcloaks,” Egil finished calmly. “I’m not irreplaceable.”

“You are to me!” Shahvee blurted.

His expression was stricken. She knew he was a decent man but he was also very loyal to the Nord traditions and several people, most of them well-meaning, had told her only a Nord (or in certain cases a human of another race with a Nord parent) could be a Jarl, and it was thrice so for the legendary Throne of Ysgramor. They were friends and until now, Shahvee had kept her opinion to herself, even if Calli had threatened to break Egil’s balls if he broke her heart. Calli was from Cyrodiil, where these things didn’t matter so much. She’d think nothing of her brother marrying her best friend’s daughter – would even encourage the match.

But Shahvee’s unwise declaration had ruined the friendship between them. She knew Egil cared for her, but couldn’t love her. She should go, hand the hetman’s job over to Scouts, move to Riften. Surely there was honest labour there. Zenithar would understand.

“I have never regretted the laws of my forefathers until now,” Egil said hoarsely. “The gods have given me a mate after my own heart, but I must either treat her like an official mistress or risk a succession crisis in Eastmarch. I sometimes wish Bjarni was the Jarl, because then it wouldn’t matter so much.”

Shahvee gave a sad chuckle. “He’d probably marry a Dunmer and make the Thanes really shriek in outrage.”

“He really doesn’t care what other people think of him, does he? I suppose it’s the dragon-blood. Calli seems to share the same indifference.”

She shook her head. “Calli has endured the worst folk can inflict short of imprisonment, physical torture and death. She ignores such simple things as insults.”

Egil inhaled shakily. “I would marry you, Shahvee, if there was a clear line of succession. If-If I had a decent cousin or something. Bjarni’s a possibility but he’s going to be in Cyrodiil and Windhelm needs a Jarl that lives here.”

He raked a hand through his sable hair. “I… I’m not the kind of person to be okay with the arrangement my parents and Galmar had. You deserve better than to be some bit on the side and there’s very few Nord women of appropriate rank who’d be okay with it.”

“Because I’m an Argonian?” she asked gently, though her heart was breaking.

“In a couple cases, yes, but in others it’s because they have the right to be offended that their husband’s got an official mistress. The ones who’d be okay with it…” Egil grimaced. “They’d want the power and prestige of being the Jarl’s wife. I’d prefer someone who thought more of the duty rather than the rights.”

She allowed herself a sigh. “I understand, Egil. I just wish…”

“Me too, love,” he said with a catch in his deep voice. “Me too.”

“It’s not all gloom and doom,” Galmar rumbled from the doorway that led to the great hall. “Egil, I have word from the Grey-Manes.”

Shahvee turned to face the hulking huscarl, who was accompanied by an equally massive Nord with prematurely silvered hair and the skinnier, scarred, limping version of them both.

“Avulstein! Thorald!” Egil ran over to embrace them. “What… how…?”

“The Legion captured me and took me to Northwatch Keep,” the skinny Nord said soberly. “The she-dragon, two Blades and a Redguard Sword-Saint rescued everyone and she used her Voice to cast down the stones of that vile place.”

“Calli never did like prisons,” Shahvee observed.

“That relieves me more than you know, my cousins,” Egil said sincerely, guiding Thorald to a comfortable seat. “Even a Thief can have morals.”

“Even the daughter of the Stormsword,” growled Galmar. “I’m not sure I’m thrilled about her plans but…”

“There were two men in the universe stupid enough to marry Sigdrifa Stormsword?” blurted out the big Nord, who had to be Avulstein. “I’d heard the rumours but…”

“Bjarni’s the other Dragonborn. I don’t know where nithings go, but I can imagine the one who gave birth to us three is screaming into the Void for how wrong she was on everything,” Egil said grimly.

Thorald gave his cousin a pitying look. “That bad?”

“She sponsored the Butcher and a Redguard necromancer in the ruins of Anvilsund, not to mention all sorts of other crimes,” Egil answered grimly.

“Lu’ah al-Skaven?” Avulstein asked. “We, uh, promised Cirroc help with her.”

“As your kinsman, I will be pleased to lend this Cirroc a hand,” Egil promised.

“As I was saying, it’s not all doom and gloom,” Galmar said, smiling wryly. “Thorald’s a ‘decent cousin’, if I recall correctly, and as your paternal cousin he’s got certain rights of inheritance…”

Shahvee blinked. Was Galmar implying what she thought he was implying?

The huscarl’s craggy face softened. “It might be the end of days, one way or the other, and I’d rather you be happy than be worried about some old laws. Shahvee’s got a heart as true as any Nord’s.”

“Someone’s stupid enough to fall in love with Egil?” Avulstein asked in surprise.

“Why not? He’s less prone to saying stupid things than you are,” Bjarni boomed from the door. “Congratulations, brother. I thought I’d be the family disappointment.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Avulstein said sardonically. “You still are.”

“We all need a hobby, I suppose.” Bjarni shoved the smaller Nord beside – Shahvee was always struck by how _big_ Egil’s brother was – and gave Egil, then Shahvee, a rib-crushing hug. “We’ve got a Priest of Mara staying at Kynesgrove. I can have him here in a couple hours.”

“I can fetch Calli from Candlehearth Hall,” called out a light young tenor, accented with Hammerfell’s clipped tones, from the great hall. “I’d come along, but Sigdrifa might just raise herself from the dead at Rustem’s son attending the wedding.”

“I most certainly hope not!” Shahvee retorted. “We burned her, then salted the ashes, put them in a blessed silver box with lead seals, and dumped her in the harbour under more blessed rocks. No one wants her around as a sea-ghost!”

“Invite the Blades too,” Avulstein suggested with a grin. “I mean, if we’re going to completely insult your mother’s memory…”

“This was not how I expected my wedding to be,” Egil said plaintively.

Bjarni laughed. “Welcome to the family, Shahvee. We’re all a little fucked up, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Egil’s just fine,” she retorted. “ _You_ , on the other hand…”

Avulstein roared with laughter and even Thorald had a grin on his face. But Bjarni laughed hardest of all.

Shahvee still didn’t get the average Nord but she understood Egil, and that was all that mattered.


	23. A Brave New World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. It’s a nice day for a wet wedding! (This story has expanded into a multi-story franchise and the next one will focus on Bjarni/Ria, and Calli’s romance may be subject to change).

“You’re very lucky I know something about enchanting,” Calli said amusedly as she handed over a small ivory amulet carved with a whale and a bear. “These are the symbols of Tsun and Stuhn, who might be the Nord versions of Zenithar and Tsun, and I was able to get my hands on a couple soul gems.”

Egil examined the amulet as Calli gave Shahvee hers. “Wuunferth?”

“Yes. Yours has Waterbreathing and disease resistance while Shahvee’s has Muffle and frost resistance. Seemed appropriate.”

“You’ve given us amulets with the benefits that the other partner possesses naturally,” Shahvee said, sounding pleased.

“I was one of your mother’s bridesmaids, remember?” Calli produced two golden rings, each one set with three flawlessly cut amethysts and three pale blue-white stones that radiated cold. “Amethysts for the Hist and stalhrim for Kyne. Madesi in Riften made these.”

Egil goggled. He hadn’t thought as far as rings. Then again, he hadn’t expected to get married this morning either.

“You knew this would happen?” Shahvee asked softly.

“Once we rescued Thorald and I learned of his connection, I’d see what happened. My parents were in a marriage that made sense politically but was an absolute misery personally. I know sometimes an arranged marriage is unavoidable, but more than just political advantage needs to be considered.” She set the rings on the table. “Having encountered most of the Jarls’ female kin around here, there’s very few decent candidates among them, and most of those would rightfully be resentful of a mistress loved more than them. So in short, fuck politics. Enough of it has ruined the lives of entire generations for me to stand by and let two well suited people pine themselves to misery.”

“How’d you get Galmar on your side?” Egil asked, picking up the smaller ring.

“Galmar’s more perceptive than you might think and I suspect he endured a lot of quiet misery as your father’s consort,” Calli answered with a sigh. “His main problem wasn’t Shahvee herself or you marrying Shahvee, it was the lack of a clear succession. When I showed up with the Grey-Mane boys…”

“Can you believe this idiot was going to go to Anvilsund and kill the necromancer just because he trained as a Vigilant?” Shahvee asked her.

“I hope he’d have brought friends. Anvilsund is a pretty dire location according to my Guild friends.” Calli’s gaze was distant. “Speaking of Guild matters, there’s going to be some disruption of the East Empire Trade Company’s warehouse in the next couple weeks. They’re already running around like chickens with their heads cut off thanks to Vittoria Vicci’s death – and the revelation she’d been complicit in a very nasty plot to make the next Emperor a Dominion vassal – and-“

“What?” Egil yelped.

“Vittoria Vicci and about a third of the Elder Council have been subverted enough to allow the Dominion to place either a direct vassal or a puppet on the Ruby Throne.” Calli continued grimly. “That’s why I’m hoping Ria and Bjarni will get along enough to marry amicably, because failing that, I’m either going to need to proclaim Bjarni as Emperor in his own right and/or outright facilitate a Stormcloak invasion of Cyrodiil if we can’t stop Astrid and her merry band of idiots from following Motierre’s plan and killing the Marei. The Heartland can’t be allowed to fall into Dominion hands.”

Egil shuddered in horror. “If the Thalmor get a puppet on the Ruby Throne…”

“…Bruma will look like a childish game of pulling wings from flies,” Calli finished grimly. “And in that case, I may very well arrange for Alduin’s victory, because at least we know the World-Eater will regurgitate the world into a new form.”

“I’ve told Bjarni to join the Companions. At worst…” Egil sighed. “We’ll have a hostage in the form of Akaviria. Forgive me, Calli, but…”

“Bjarni can be charming and Akaviria’s always been interested in Nord culture,” Calli said dryly. “I just hope he doesn’t get the bright idea of kidnapping her.”

Shahvee waved a hand. “Enough politics. We have a wedding.”

Erandur, the Priest of Mara, was a weathered middle-aged mer with compassionate scarlet eyes. “Ah, here’s the blushing bride and the proud groom,” he said as Egil, Shahvee and Calli entered the Great Hall.

From the looks of it, half of Windhelm were attending, and much to Egil’s surprise the mood was generally approving. Shahvee’s sweet, gentle nature and kind heart had won over more folk than he expected. Maybe the city wasn’t as racist as some people claimed.

In the groom’s party was Bjarni, the Grey-Manes, Galmar, Brunwulf, Ralof, Helga Hard-Heart and Leif the Lonely, Egil’s chief cavalry commander. For Shahvee, there was Scouts-Many-Marshes, Laughs-in-Joy and Swims-in-Shadow, Calli, Susanna the Wicked, a sharp-faced Breton woman with greying blonde hair and Cirroc, who looked very much like his sister. “I’m afraid part of your party’s made up of those who want to irritate Sigdrifa in the afterlife or my extended family,” Calli apologised to Shahvee. “The blonde’s Delphine, the current Blades Grandmaster, and Cirroc’s my brother.”

“By Saxhleel law, they count,” Shahvee said very softly.

“Shall we begin?” Erandur asked as they gathered together.

“Yes,” Egil and Shahvee said in unison.

“It was Mara that first gave birth to all of creation and pledged to watch over us as her children. It is from her love of us that we first learned to love one another. It is from this love that we learn that a life lived alone is no life at all. We gather here today, under Mara's loving gaze, to bear witness to the union of two souls in eternal companionship. May they journey forth together in this life and the next, in prosperity and poverty, and in joy and hardship. Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?” Erandur asked, looking between them.

“I do. Now and forever,” Shahvee promised.

“I do. Now and forever,” Egil repeated, meaning every word.

“Under the authority of Mara, the Divine of Love, I declare this couple to be wed,” Erandur declared. “You may now exchange rings and kiss each other. May you love and protect each other in your journey through life together.”

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” Everyone was chanting it, much to Egil’s embarrassment, but Shahvee seized the moment and kissed him. Her fangs nibbled delicately and her tongue-

Egil could only thank the gods he wore a long tunic because if Bjarni had noticed anything, he’d have never let him live it down. But it was obvious Shahvee had slept with other human men. Thank Stendarr _someone_ knew what to do.

The ensuing party was a mishmash of Nord and Argonian customs. Egil had to catch pieces of salmon cake Shahvee tossed at him in his mouth, each success indicating a child they would have – from the looks of it they were going to adopt quite a brood. Shahvee, on her end, had to throw a wedding bouquet that smacked Bjarni in the face before he caught it, which boded well for his future. No one said anything about Calli’s hands glowing blue-green or the bouquet’s trajectory. Everyone got drunk on mead and bloodwine.

When Egil saw Nilsine Shatter-Shield and Scouts talking over mead, he smiled. Assuming Torbjorn didn’t die from the outrage, he might find his heir married to an Argonian.

Bjarni led the cheering as he carried his bride up to bed. It was times like this Egil was grateful for his brother’s overwhelming personality, because he’d keep everyone busy for the next few hours.

If only his parents had…

Egil let the thought trail off. Ulfric would never have embraced Shahvee and Sigdrifa would have outright murdered her. She’d chased off Njada to the Companions when she thought Egil and she were too close.

It was a new world in Windhelm. Stendarr’s mercy and Zenithar’s resolution, not Talos’ cruelty, reigned.

He smiled shyly as Shahvee as he closed the bedroom door. Sometimes the end of the world was more metaphorical than literal. It would be a brave new world for them all.

As it should be.


End file.
